BAT  WING  BOWLES 


"  'WHY,   HELLO  THERE,  COWBOY  !'   SHE  CHALLENGED  BLUNTLY'' — Page   1 14 


BAT  WING 
BOWLES 

BY 

DANE    COOLIDGE 

AUTHOR  OF  "HIDDEN  WATER"  AND  "THE  TEXICAN' 
Illustrated  by  D.  C.  Hutchison 


NEW  YORK 
FREDERICK   A.   STOKES   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT, 
FREDERICK  A.   STOKES  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1913,    BY 
STREET  &  SMITH,  NEW  YORK 


All  rights  reserved^  including  that  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  MR.  BOWLES     .     .    •  «    ~.     ....  i 

II  THE  FAR  WEST    ,'.-  ...     .     .     .'  n 

III  THE  BAT  WING  RANCH 22 

IV  BRIGHAM 32 

V  WA-HA-LOTE      .     .     *     .     ..     .     .     .  50 

VI  THE  ROUND-UP      .......  62 

VII  THE  QUEEN  AT  HOME     .....  74 

VIII  A  COWBOY'S  LIFE  .     ......  85 

IX  REDUCED  TO  THE  RANKS 96 

X  THE  FIRST  SMILE  .......  108 

XI  CONEY  ISLAND 116 

XII  PROMOTED 130 

XIII  A  LETTER  FROM  THE   POSTMISTRESS     .  150 

XIV  THE  ENGLISH  LORD .162 

XV  BURYING  THE  HATCHET 172 

XVI  THE  STRAW-BOSS .185 

XVII  AND  His  SQUIRREL  STORY     ....  201 

XVIII  THE  ROUGH-RIDERS 215 

XIX  A  COMMON  BRAWL 232 

XX  THE  DEATH  OF  HAPPY  JACK     .     .     .  247 

XXI  A  CALL       .     .     .     ......  255 

XXII  THE  HORSE  THAT  KILLED  DUNBAR     .  265 

XXIII  THE  CUSTOM  OF  THE  COUNTRY     .     .  278 


M13743 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  'Why,   hello   there,  cowboy !'   she  challenged   bluntly" 

Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

"Only  Bowles,  the  man  from  the  East,   rose  and  took 

off   his  hat" 76 

"  'You  want  to  be  careful  how  you  treat  these  Arizona 

girls!'" .      .      .      1 80 

"The  man-killer  charged  at  him  through  the  dust"        .     276 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 


CHAPTER  I 

MR.    BOWLES 


IT  was  a  fine  windy  morning  in  March  and 
Dixie  Lee,  of  Chula  Vista,  Arizona,  was 
leaving  staid  New  York  at  the  gate  marked 
"Western  Limited."  A  slight  difference  with  the 
gatekeeper,  who  seemed  to  doubt  every  word  she 
said,  cast  no  cloud  upon  her  spirits,  and  she  was 
cheerfully  searching  for  her  ticket  when  a  gentle 
man  came  up  from  behind.  At  sight  of  the  trim 
figure  at  the  wicket,  he  too  became  suddenly 
happy,  and  it  looked  as  if  the  effete  East  was 
losing  two  of  its  merriest  citizens. 

"Oh,  good-morning,  Miss  Lee !"  he  said,  bow 
ing  and  smiling  radiantly  as  she  glanced  in  his 
direction.  "Are  you  going  out  on  this  train?" 

"Why — yes,"  she  replied,  gazing  into  her  hand 
bag  with  a  preoccupied  frown.  "That  is,  if  I  can 
find  my  ticket!" 

She  found  it  on  the  instant,  but  the  frown  did 
not  depart.  She  had  forgotten  the  young  man's 
name.  It  was  queer  how  those  New  York  names 
slipped  her  memory — but  she  remembered  his  face 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

distinctly.  She  had  met  him  at  some  highbrow 
affair — it  was  a  reception  or  some  such  social 
maelstrom — and,  yes,  his  name  was  Bowles ! 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Bowles,"  she  exclaimed 
as  he  gallantly  took  her  bag ;  but  a  furtive  glance 
at  his  face  left  her  suddenly  transfixed  with  doubts. 
Not  that  his  expression  changed — far  from  that — 
but  a  fleeting  twinkle  in  his  eyes  suggested  some 
hidden  joke. 

"Oh,  isn't  your  name  Bowles?"  she  stammered. 
"I  met  you  at  the  Wordsworth  Club,  you  know, 
and " 

"Oh,  yes — quite  right!"  he  assured  her  politely. 
"You  have  a  wonderful  memory  for  names,  Miss 
Lee.  Shall  we  go  on  down  to  your  car?" 

Dixie  Lee  regarded  the  young  man  question- 
ingly  and  with  a  certain  Western  disfavor.  He 
was  one  of  those  trim  and  proper  creatures  that 
seemed  to  haunt  Wordsworth  societies,  welfare 
meetings,  and  other  culture  areas  known  only  to 
the  cognoscente  and  stern-eyed  Eastern  aunts.  In 
fact,  he  seemed  to  personify  all  those  qualities 
of  breeding  and  education  which  a  long  winter 
of  compulsory  "finishing"  had  taught  her  to  de 
spise  ;  and  yet — well,  if  it  were  not  for  his  clothes 
and  manners  and  the  way  he  dropped  his  "r's" 
he  might  almost  pass  for  human.  But  she  knew 
his  name  wasn't  Bowles. 


MR.  BOWLES 

There  had  been  a  person  there  by  the  name  of 
Bowles,  but  the  hostess  had  mumbled  when  she 
presented  this  one — and  they  had  talked  quite  a 
little,  too.  She  glanced  at  him  again  and  a  ques 
tion  trembled  on  her  lips;  but  names  were  nothing 
out  where  she  came  from,  and  she  let  it  go  for 
Bowles. 

The  hypothetical  Mr.  Bowles  was  a  tall  and 
slender  young  man,  of  a  type  that  ordinarily 
maddened  her  beyond  all  reason  and  prompted 
her  to  say  cruel  things  which  she  was  never  sorry 
for  afterward.  He  had  a  clear  complexion,  a 
Cupid's  bow  mouth,  and  eyes  as  innocent  as  a 
girl's.  They  were  of  a  deep  violet  hue,  very  soft 
and  soulful,  and  had  a  truly  cultured  way  of 
changing — when  he  talked — to  mirror  a  thousand 
shades  of  interest,  courtesy  and  concern;  but  the 
way  they  had  flickered  when  he  took  over  the 
name  of  Bowles  suggested  a  real  man  behind  the 
veil.  His  manners,  of  course,  were  irreproach 
able;  and  not  even  a  haberdasher  could  take  ex 
ception  to  his  clothes.  He  was,  in  fact,  attired 
strictly  according  to  the  mode,  in  a  close-fitting 
suit  of  striped  gray,  with  four-inch  cuffs  above  his 
box-toed  shoes,  narrow  shoulders,  and  a  low- 
crowrned  derby  hat,  now  all  the  rage  but  affected 
for  many  years  only  by  Dutch  comedians. 

When    he    removed    this    hat,    which    he    did 

[3] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

whenever  he  stood  in  her  presence,  he  revealed 
a  very  fine  head  of  hair  which  had  been  brushed 
straight  back  from  his  forehead  until  each  strand 
knew  its  separate  place;  and  yet,  far  from  being 
pleased  at  this  final  evidence  of  conscientious 
endeavor,  Dixie  May  received  him  almost  with  a 
sniff. 

"And  are  you  really  on  your  way  to  Arizona, 
Miss  Lee?"  he  inquired,  carefully  leaving  the 
"r"  out  of  "are"  and  putting  the  English  on 
"really."  "Why,  how  fortunate!  I  am  going 
West  myself!  Perhaps  we  can  renew  our  ac 
quaintance  on  the  way.  Those  were  jolly  stories 
you  were  telling  me  at  the  Wordsworth  Club — 
very  improperly,  to  be  sure,  but  all  the  more 
interesting  on  that  account.  About  the  round-up 
cook,  you  know,  and  the  man  who  couldn't  say 
'No.'  Nothing  like  that  in  California,  I  suppose. 
I'm  off  for  Los  Angeles,  myself." 

"All  right,"  answered  Dixie  Lee,  waving  Cali 
fornia  airily  aside;  "Arizona  is  good  enough  for 
me !  Say,  I'm  going  to  ask  this  man  where  my 
section  is." 

She  fished  out  her  Pullman  ticket  and  showed 
it  to  a  waiting  porter,  who  motioned  her  down 
the  train. 

"The  fourth  car,  lady,"  he  said.  "Car  Number 
Four!" 

[4] 


MR.  BOWLES 

"Car  Four!"  cried  Bowles,  setting  down  the 
suitcase  with  quite  a  dramatic  start.  "Why — why, 
isn't  this  remarkable,  Miss  Lee?  To  think  that 
we  should  take  the  same  train — on  the  same  day 
— and  then  have  the  very  same  car!  But,  don't 
you  know,  you  never  finished  that  last  story  you 
were  telling  me — about  the  cowboy  who  went  to 
the  picnic — and  now  I  shall  demand  the  end  of 
it.  Really,  Miss  Lee,  I  enjoyed  your  tales  im 
mensely — but  don't  let  me  keep  you  waiting!" 

He  hurried  on,  still  commenting  upon  the  re 
markable  coincidence;  and  as  a  memory  of  the 
reception  came  back  to  her  and  she  recalled  the 
avid  way  in  which  this  same  young  man  had  hung 
upon  her  words,  a  sudden  doubt,  a  shrewd  ques 
tioning,  came  over  the  mind  of  Dixie  Lee.  Back  in 
Arizona,  now,  a  man  with  any  git-up-and-git  to 
him  might — but,  pshaw,  this  was  not  Arizona ! 
And  he  was  not  that  kind  of  man!  No,  indeed! 
The  idea  of  one  of  these  New  York  Willies  doing 
the  sleuth  act  and  tagging  her  to  the  train ! 

At  the  same  time  Dixie  Lee  had  her  misgivings 
about  this  correct  young  man,  because  she  knew 
his  name  was  not  Bowles.  More  than  that,  his 
language  displeased  her,  reminding  her  as  it  did 
of  her  long  winter's  penance  among  the  culturines. 
Three  days  more  of  highbrow  conversation  would 
just  about  finish  her  off — she  must  be  stern,  very 

[5] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

stern,  if  she  would  avert  the  impending  disaster  1 
So  she  stabbed  her  neatly-trimmed  little  sombrero 
with  a  hatpin  and  waited  for  Mr.  Bowles. 

"Lovely  weather  we've  been  having,  isn't  it?" 
he  purled  as  he  made  bold  to  sit  down  beside  her. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  she  answered,  showing  her  white 
teeth  in  a  simpering  smile.  "Simply  heavenly. 
Don't  you  know,  it  reminds  me  of  those  lines  in 
Wordsworth — you  remember — I  think  it  was  in 
his  'Idiot  Boy.'  Oh,  how  do  they  go?" 

She  knitted  her  brows  and  Mr.  Bowles  regarded 
her  thoughtfully. 

"Perhaps  it  was  in  his  'Lines  Written  in  Early 
Spring,'  "  he  suggested  guardedly. 

"No,"  she  insisted.  "It  was  in  'The  Idiot  Boy' 
— either  that  or  in  'Lines  Written  to  the  Same 
Dog.'  I  forget  which.  Anyway,  it  told  all  about 
the  rain,  you  know,  and  the  clouds — and  all  that. 
Don't  you  remember?  I  thought  you  were  full  of 
Wordsworth." 

This  last  was  thrown  out  for  a  bait,  to  get  Mr. 
Bowles  to  extend  himself,  but  it  failed  of  its 
effect.  A  somber  smile  took  the  place  of  the  ex 
pected  frenzy  and  he  muttered  half  to  himself  as 
he  gazed  out  of  the  window. 

"What's  that  you  say?"  she  questioned  sharply. 

"Oh,  pardon  me,"  he  exclaimed,  recovering 
himself  with  a  sudden  access  of  manner;  "I  was 

[6] 


MR.  BOWLES 

talking  to  myself,  don't  you  know?  But,  really, 
I  am  pretty  full  of  Wordsworth;  so,  if  you  don't 
mind,  we'll  talk  about  something  else.  My  aunt, 
you  know,  is  a  great  devotee  of  all  the  nature 
poets,  and  I  attend  the  meetings  to  please  her. 
It's  an  awful  bore  sometimes,  too,  I  assure  you; 
that's  why  your  face  was  so  welcome  to  me  when 
I  chanced  to  see  you  at  the  club-rooms.  That 
lecturer  was  such  a  conceited  ass  and  those  women 
were  so  besotted  in  their  admiration  of  him  that 
I  looked  around  to  see  if  there  was  a  single  sane 
and  reasonable  creature  in  the  room — and  there 
you  were,  as  stern  and  uncompromising  as  an 
angel  and — oh,  well,  I  formed  a  different  con 
ception  of  angels,  right  there.  You  were  so  de 
lightfully  humorous  too,  when  Mrs.  Melvine 
introduced  us — and,  well,  really,  Miss  Lee,  you 
are  partly  responsible  for  my  leaving  New  York. 
I  never  fully  realized  before  what  our  Western 
country  must  be  like;  I  never  dreamed  that  there 
was  a  place  to  flee  to  when  the  conventions  of 
society  grew  irksome;  but  when  you  told  me  of 
your  ranch,  and  the  cowboys,  and  all  the  wonder 
ful  happenings  of  that  wild  and  carefree  life  I — I 
made  up  my  mind  to  chuck  the  whole  thing,  don't 
you  know,  and  strike  out  for  myself." 

"Oho!"  breathed  Dixie  Lee,   squinting  down 
her  eyes  and  regarding  him  with  a  shrewd  smile. 

[7] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"So  you're  running  away  to  be  a  cowboy,  eh?  Go 
ing  West  to  fight  the  Indians !  Well,  well !  But 
let  me  ask  you  one  question,  Mr.  Bowles — if  that's 
your  name — I  trust  you  don't  plan  to  begin  your 
depredations  in  my  part  of  the  country;  because  if 
you  do " 

"Oh,  my  dear  Miss  Lee,"  protested  Mr. 
Bowles,  "you  have  quite  a  mistaken  idea,  I  assure 
you.  Really,  now,  I  hope  you  give  me  credit  for 
more  discretion  than  that.  The  fact  is,  I  have  an 
old  college  friend  on  a  ranch  in  California  and, 
though  I  have  not  taken  my  aunt  entirely  into 
confidence,  I  am  really  going  out  to  make  him  a 
visit.  It's  all  very  well,  you  know,  to  read  about 
sunsets  in  Wordsworth,  but  why  not  go  out  into 
the  Far  West  and  see  the  sun  set  indeed?  That's 
what  I  say,  but  of  course  I  would  not  offend  her — 
she  simply  thinks  my  health  is  failing  and  I  need 
a  Western  trip." 

"Oh!"  said  Dixie  Lee  quietly.  "So  you've  got 
an  aunt,  too,  eh?  What  did  you  say  her  name 
was?" 

"Why,  Mrs.— er— Bowles!" 

"But  why  Mrs.  Er-Bowles?"  queried  Dixie 
May,  relentlessly.  "Why  not  Mrs.  Bowles 
straight?  Now,  you  know,  Mr.  Bowles,  it  looks 
very  much  to  me  as  if " 

"Her  former  name  was  Earl,"  interposed  Mr. 
[8] 


MR.  BOWLES 

Bowles  suavely,  and  carefully  leaving  out  the  "r." 
"My  father's  brother  married  a  very  dear  friend 
of  ours,  a  Mrs.  Earl,  and  I  sometimes  call  her 
so  still — inadvertently,  you  know.  I  am  an  orphan 
now  and  Mrs.  Earl — ah,  Bowles — has  taken  me 
as  a  son.  But  you  can  readily  understand  how  a 
young  man  of  my  age  and  disposition  might  not 
always  fall  in  with  a  somewhat  elderly  lady's 
views  of  life,  especially  in  regard  to  cultural 
influences,  and  while  I  love  her  very  dearly  and 
wouldn't  hurt  her  feelings  for  the  world " 

"Yes,  it's  too  bad  about  you!"  observed  Dixie 
Lee  heartlessly;  and  then  for  quite  a  while  she 
looked  out  of  the  car  window  as  drab  and  dirty 
tenements  slipped  by  and  the  train  plunged  into 
a  tunnel. 

"How  far  West  are  you  going?"  she  inquired, 
waking  up  suddenly  from  her  reverie.  "Lemme 
see  your  ticket.  Um-m !  Well,  we  travel  together 
as  far  as  Albuquerque,  New  Mex,  and  there  we 
say  'Good-by.'  I  reckon  California  is  about  your 
size,  Mr.  Bowles,  but  don't  you  make  any  mistake 
and  drop  off  in  Arizona  or  the  cowboys  will  scare 
you  up  some.  As  for  the  rest  of  it,  I  don't  care 
what  name  a  man  goes  by,  but  I  see  you  are  down 
on  your  ticket  here  as  'Houghton.'  ' 

There  was  a  challenge  in  her  voice ;  but  Bowles 
was  not  dismayed. 

[9] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Now,  really,  Miss  Lee,"  he  began,  "why 
quibble  over  the  accident  of  a  name?  Whether 
my  name  is  Houghton,  as  I  have  signed  it  here,  or 
Bowles,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  case.  The 
fact  is,  I  am  suffering  from  an  excess  of  aunts  and 
Wordsworth,  much  in  the  same  way  that  you  are, 
perhaps,  and  my  heart  has  gone  out  to  the  West. 
Be  a  good  fellow  now  and  help  me  out.  Tell  me 
about  the  country  and  what  I  would  better  do; 
and,  though  it  is  a  small  return,  you  shall  have 
one  more  devoted  slave  to  worship  at  your  feet." 

A  fleeting  smile  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  de 
livered  himself  of  this  last,  and  the  queen  of  the 
Bat  Wing  Ranch  paused  suddenly  to  make  sure 
there  was  no  mistake.  It  would  be  hard  indeed 
to  find  oneself  laughed  at  by  a  suede  New  Yorker, 
and  yet — well,  he  seemed  to  mean  it,  too. 

"Rise  up,  then,  Sir  Knight,"  she  said,  tapping 
him  lightly  with  her  sombrero;  "and  be  mighty 
particular  to  change  cars  when  we  get  to  Albu 
querque—otherwise  the  Chula  Vista  cowboys  will 
make  you  hard  to  catch." 


[10] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  FAR  WEST 

^  I  AHREE  days  is  a  short  time  in  which  to  post 
1  a  man  on  the  Far  West,  but  if  you  don't 
care  what  you  say,  and  say  it  quick,  you  can  give 
him  a  pretty  good  fill.  Dixie  Lee  was  almost  sorry 
when  the  Limited  rolled  into  Albuquerque,  and 
Mr.  Bowles  was  fairly  tearful  in  his  adieus. 

"Really,  Miss  Lee,"  he  said,  holding  her  hand 
with  just  a  shade  more  than  the  proper  pressure, 
"really,  I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness.  The 
days  have  passed  like  a  dream  and  I  feel  myself 
quite  a  Westerner  already.  Yes,  I  am  sure  I  shall 
love  the  West — it  is  so  big,  and  free — but  what  I 
like  about  it  most  is  its  splendid  spirit  of  equality, 
its  camaraderie.  I  can  feel  it  everywhere — it  is  in 
the  air — these  great,  rough-looking  men,  greeting 
perfect  strangers  in  the  smokers  and  on  the  plat 
forms  and  saying:  'Say,  pardner,  gimme  a  match' 
— or  a  smoke,  even !  Oh,  it  is  glorious !  I — but, 
really,  I  must  be  going !  So  sorry  our  ways  should 
part  here.  Well,  good-by,  Miss  Lee — so  glad  we 
should  happen  to  meet.  I  hope  you  have  a  pleasant 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

journey.  Thank  you!  Oh,  don't  mention  it— 
good-by!" 

He  raised  his  Dutch  comedian  hat  once  more, 
a  trace  of  romantic  mistiness  came  into  his  violet 
eyes,  and  then  he  hurried  back  to  his  luxurious 
quarters  on  the  Limited  while  Dixie  May  sat  and 
waited  for  the  southbound  to  take  her  to  Deming. 
It  was  not  a  cheerful  journey  to  contemplate,  for 
New  Mexico  and  Arizona  way  trains  are  slow  and 
dusty,  and  given  to  making  poor  connections  and 
unseemly  arrivals;  but  by  ten  o'clock  that  evening 
Dixie  Lee  hoped  to  get  as  far  as  Deming  and 
then,  if  the  Overland  happened  to  be  late  too, 
she  could  catch  a  westbound  passenger  and  get  to 
Chula  Vista  before  the  hotel  closed.  The  West 
ern  Limited  pulled  out  as  her  train  still  stood  on 
its  track  and  she  glanced  at  the  rear-end  of  the 
observation  car  for  a  fluttering  handkerchief;  but 
Mr.  Bowies'  emotions  seemed  to  have  overcome 
him,  for  he  was  lacking  in  this  last  attention.  She 
watched  for  him  with  a  broad  grin;  then,  when 
she  was  sure  he  was  really  gone,  Dixie  May  threw 
herself  back  in  her  seat  and  laughed  until  she  was 
silly. 

She  was  in  good  humor  all  the  way  to  Deming, 
where  the  westbound  was  reported  two  hours  late ; 
but  as  she  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  platform 
at  midnight  her  face  came  suddenly  straight.  The 

[12] 


THE    FAR    WEST 

westbound  was  standing  on  the  track  waiting  for 
orders  and  she  was  walking  along  up  toward  the 
front  when  suddenly,  through  the  smoking-car 
window,  she  beheld  Sir  Knight  Bowles  in  eager 
converse  with  a  grizzled  old-timer!  If  it  wasn't 
he,  it  was  his  twin  brother — for  there  was  the 
hard-boiled  hat  as  large  as  life.  The  window  was 
a  little  murky  and  the  air  was  thick  inside,  but 
Dixie  May  was  sure  she  had  seen  him — or  was 
she  having  dreams? 

It  seemed,  somehow,  as  if  she  couldn't  get  that 
droll  creature  out  of  her  mind.  All  the  way  down 
from  Albuquerque  she  had  been  hearing  his  talk 
in  her  ears  and  laughing  at  the  way  he  broadened 
his  "a's"  and  purred  and  purled  over  his  ur's." 
At  times  she  had  burst  into  inextinguishable 
laughter,  insomuch  that  several  of  the  male  pas 
sengers  had  regarded  her  with  curious  glances  and 
the  train  boy  had  tried  to  get  gay  with  her;  but 
Dixie  Lee  knew  how  to  settle  that  kind  of  folks. 
A  peanut  butcher  was  a  peanut  butcher  to  her, 
and  nothing  more;  and  if  he  neglected  to  hawk 
his  wares  in  order  to  drape  himself  over  the  back 
of  her  seat  she  could  put  him  in  his  place.  It  was 
Mr.  Bowles  that  she  was  thinking  of — Mr.  Bowles 
— and  when  she  remembered  the  innocent  look  on 
his  face  as  she  filled  him  up  with  Indian  atrocities 
and  cattle-war  stories  she  just  simply  had  to  laugh. 

[131 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

But  now  to  find  him  following  her — to  discover 
him  on  the  same  train  when  he  was  ticketed  west 
out  of  Albuquerque — well,  that  was  a  different 
thing  entirely! 

Dixie  Lee  retired  to  the  sleeper  to  snatch  a  few 
hours  of  repose  and  when  the  dead-eyed  porter 
set  her  down  at  Chula  Vista  she  had  entirely  for 
gotten  her  knight.  It  was  five  o'clock  on  a  cold 
March  morning  and  the  wind  came  in  from  across 
the  prairie  with  a  sweep  that  chilled  the  blood.  It 
was  so  cold  that  the  ticket-agent  had  ducked  back 
into  his  inner  sanctum  before  she  could  so  much 
as  hail  him — and  it  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up  to 
the  hotel!  Dixie  May  took  a  long  look  about 
her;  she  tried  the  waiting-room  door;  then,  with 
a  deep-drawn  shudder,  she  turned  to  go  it  alone, 
when  lo,  a  tall  and  masculine  figure  stepped  out 
from  behind  the  warehouse  and  she  recognized 
Mr.  Bowles ! 

"Pardon  me,  madam,"  he  said,  doffing  his 
comedian  hat  and  addressing  her  as  if  she  were 
a  stranger;  "I  see  you  are  all  alone — can  I  be  of 
any  service  to  you?" 

It  was  dark,  all  right,  but  the  idea  of  Mr. 
Bowles  expecting  to  conceal  his  identity  by  mere 
starlight!  She  knew  him,  of  course,  the  minute 
she  saw  his  hat,  but — well,  what  was  the  use  of 
getting  haughty  about  it?  Why  not  do  a  little 

[14] 


THE    FAR    WEST 

play-acting,  too,  until  they  got  up  to  the  hotel? 
"Why — why,  yes,"  she  faltered,  simulating  an 
appealing  weakness.  "It's  very  kind  of  you,  I'm 
sure.  I — I  expected  my  father  to  meet  me  here, 
but " 

"Ah,  yes — very  unfortunate,"  put  in  Bowles 
promptly.  "Is  there  any  hotel  near?  Just  lead 
the  way  then,  and  I'll  follow  with  your  luggage. 
You  might  put  on  my  overcoat  if  you're  suffering 
from  the  cold.  Rather  not?  Very  well,  then; 
let's  hurry  along  to  the  hotel." 

They  hurried,  Bowles  struggling  with  the  bag 
gage,  of  which  he  had  three  pieces,  and  Dixie  Lee 
preparing  her  valedictory.  Yes,  much  as  she 
regretted  it,  she  would  have  to  bid  him  farewell — 
otherwise  he  might  come  tagging  after  her  out  to 
the  ranch  and  set  the  whole  country  to  talking. 
It  was  all  very  well  back  in  New  York,  or  on  the 
train,  but  in  the  Tortugas — never!  She  would 
have  to  make  her  final  effort  cutting,  but  she  hoped 
he  would  not  take  it  too  hard — and  meanwhile,  as 
a  penance  for  his  presumption,  he  could  break  his 
back  packing  her  suitcases  up  from  the  station. 

"Ah,  just  a  moment!"  entreated  Mr.  Bowles, 
setting  down  the  suitcases  and  working  his  tortured 
hands.  "Oh,  no,  not  heavy  at  all — perhaps  I  can 
fasten  them  together  with  this  strap." 

He    unbuckled    the    shoulder-strap    from    his 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

alligator-skin    bag    and    looped    it    through    the 
handles  of  the  suitcases. 

"Hah!  Just  the  thing!"  he  exclaimed,  slinging 
the  two  suitcases  over  his  shoulder;  and  then,  with 
a  long,  free  stride,  he  swung  along  beside  her,  as 
tireless  as  an  Indian — and  as  silent. 

A  sudden  sense  of  respect,  almost  of  awe,  came 
over  Dixie  Lee  as  she  contemplated  his  master 
ful  repose,  but  the  hotel  door  was  near  and  she 
nerved  herself  for  the  assault. 

"You  think  you're  smart,  don't  you?"  she 
snapped.  "Following  along  after  me  this  way! 
Just  because  I  happened  to  be  a  little  friendly " 

"Now,  really,  Miss  Lee,"  broke  in  Bowles  with 
admirable  calm,  "I  hope  you  will  not  be  too  hard 
on  me.  I  assure  you,  if  it  had  not  been  for  your 
distressing  situation — which  no  gentleman  could 
overlook — you  would  never  have  been  aware  of 
my  presence.  But  you  have  known  me  long 
enough,  I  am  sure,  to  know  that  I  would  never 
presume  to  force  my  society  upon  any  lady,  more 
particularly  upon  one  for  whom " 

"Well,  what  are  you  tagging  along  for  then?" 
demanded  Dixie  Lee  wrathfully.  "When  I  said 
good-by  to  you  up  at  Albuquerque  you  had  a 
through  ticket  to  California.  Now  here  you  are 
down  at  Chula  Vista.  What  are  you  up  to — that's 
what  I  want  to  know!" 

[16] 


THE  FAR  WEST 

"To  be  sure!"  agreed  Mr.  Bowles.  "Under 
the  circumstances,  you  have  a  perfect  right  to  an 
explanation.  I  may  as  well  confess  then,  Miss 
Lee,  that  your  stories  told  on  the  train  have  fired 
me  with  a  desire  to  see  the  real  West,  not  the 
pseudo  or  imitation  article,  but  the  real  thing  with 
the  hair  on,  as  you  so  aptly  phrased  it.  But  here 
was  my  difficulty — I  had  no  one  to  direct  me.  The 
hotel-keepers,  the  ticket-agents,  even  my  Eastern 
friends  in  the  West,  might  send  me  astray  and  I 
be  none  the  wiser.  I  admit  it  was  hardly  a  gent^ 
manly  thing  to  do,  but  rather  than  lose  my  last 
chance  to  see  the  great  West  of  which  you  spoke 
I  followed  after  you;  but  without  the  slightest 
intention,  I  assure  you,  of  making  myself  obnox 
ious.  Is  this  the  hotel  ahead?" 

uYes,"  said  Dixie  Lee,  "it  is.  And  while  I  wish 
to  congratulate  you  upon  your  explanation  I  want 
to  inform  you,  Mr.  Bowles,  that  right  here  is 
where  we  part.  You're  looking  for  the  Wild 
West,  and  here  she  is  with  her  hair  down.  If 
you  are  hunting  experiences  these  Chula  Vista 
boys  will  certainly  accommodate  you;  but  from 
this  time  on,  Mr.  Bowles,  we  are  strangers.  We 
don't  know  each  other,  do  you  understand?  If 
what  you  say  is  true,  you  followed  me  simply  to 
find  the  Far  West.  This  is  it.  We're  quits,  then; 
and  I  shall  have  to  ask  you,  as  a  gentleman,  not 

[17] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

to  annoy  me  further.  You  may  be  all  right — back 
in  New  York — but  out  here  it's  different  and  I 
don't  want  to  have  the  folks  joshing  me  about 
you.  So  I'll  bid  you  farewell,  Mr.  Bowles,  and 
thank  you  kindly  for  carrying  up  my  baggage — 
but  don't  you  dare  come  around  the  Bat  Wing 
Ranch,  or  I'll  tell  the  boys  to  kill  you!" 

She  grabbed  up  her  baggage  as  she  spoke  and 
hurried  ahead,  and  when  Mr.  Bowles  stepped  into 
the  hotel  some  minutes  later  she  was  as  distant 
as  an  ivory  goddess.  Or  a  bronze  goddess,  to 
be  exact,  for  the  sun  and  wind  had  caressed  the 
fair  cheeks  of  Dixie  May  until  they  were  as  brown 
and  ruddy  as  a  berry,  and  even  the  steam  heat 
of  a  New  York  apartment  could  only  reduce  their 
coloring.  She  seemed  a  goddess  indeed  to  Bowles 
as  she  lingered  beside  the  stove,  her  smooth, 
capable  hands  bared  to  the  glow  of  the  flames, 
and  her  body  buoyant  with  the  grace  of  youth;  but 
the  laughing  brown  eyes  which  had  become  the 
mirrors  of  his  life  were  turned  away  now  and  all 
the  world  was  changed. 

The  bottle-nosed  proprietor  came  shuffling  in 
from  the  bar  and  silently  handed  him  a  pen ;  then, 
without  looking  at  the  name  that  was  signed,  he 
wrote  a  number  after  it  and  handed  his  guest  a  key. 

"Baggage?"  he  inquired  as  Mr.  Bowles  stood 
helplessly  to  one  side. 

[18] 


THE  FAR  WEST 

"Oh,  yes !"  said  Bowles,  recovering  himself  with 
an  effort.  "Here  are  the  checks.  My  trunks  will 
be  in  on  a  later  train.  Have  them  sent  up,  won't 
you?" 

"Sample  room?"  queried  the  hotel-keeper 
brusquely. 

"Beg  pardon?" 

"D'ye  want  'em  put  in  the  sample  room?" 
snarled  the  proprietor,  outraged  at  having  to 
bandy  words  with  the  despised  Easterner. 

"The  sample  room?"  repeated  Mr.  Bowles, 
now  thoroughly  mystified.  "Why,  no — why 
should  I?" 

At  this  final  evidence  of  imbecility  a  mighty 
spasm  of  rage  came  over  the  proprietor,  and  as  he 
struggled  to  regain  his  calm  Dixie  Lee  suddenly 
clapped  a  handkerchief  to  her  mouth  and  made  a 
dash  for  the  dining-room.  The  paroxysm  passed 
and  with  an  air  of  wearied  indulgence  the  proprie 
tor  explained  and  disappeared. 

"All  right!"  he  grumbled.  "Guess  you  know 
your  own  business.  Thought  you  was  a  travelin' 


man." 


He  stepped  back  through  the  door  marked 
"Bar"  and  Mr.  Bowles  was  left  to  gasp  alone.  A 
traveling  man !  They  took  him  for  a  traveling  man ! 
It  was  quite  a  shock,  and  Bowles  was  still  brooding 
over  it  by  the  stove  when  the  door  from  the  bar 

[19] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

was  thrust  open  and  a  tall  cowboy,  booted  and 
spurred  and  shapped  and  pistoled,  came  stalking 
into  the  room.  His  broad  sombrero  was  shoved 
far  back  on  his  head,  showing  a  tremendous  stand 
of  tumbled  hair,  and  his  keen  hazel  eyes  roved 
about  with  the  steady  intentness  of  a  hunting 
animal's ;  but  only  for  the  fraction  of  a  second  did 
he  condescend  to  notice  Bowles.  He  swayed  a 
little  as  he  walked  and  the  aroma  of  whisky  came 
with  him,  but  otherwise  he  seemed  perfectly  sober. 

"Say!"  he  called,  turning  and  kicking  the  bar 
door  open  again,  "did  Dix  come  in  on  that  train? 
She  did?  Well,  here's  where  I  git  hell — I  was 
supposed  to  go  down  and  meet  'er!" 

He  came  over  and  stood  by  the  stove,  ap 
parently  oblivious  of  the  man  before  him,  and 
while  he  waited  he  cursed  himself  in  a  cynical, 
impersonal  sort  of  way  that  made  a  great  im 
pression  on  Bowles. 

"Well,  where  is  she?"  he  demanded,  as  the 
proprietor  hurried  in  behind  him.  "I  ain't  had 
a  wink  of  sleep,  but  we'll  have  to  hit  the  road 
anyway." 

"Dixie's  in  getting  a  cup  of  coffee,"  answered 
the  proprietor.  "Better  have  a  seltzer  first,"  he 
wheedled,  taking  him  by  the  arm  and  drawing 
him  toward  the  barroom. 

"You're    dead    right    there    too,    old    sport!" 

[20] 


THE  FAR  WEST 

responded  the  cowboy  heartily.  "My  head  is  as 
big  as  a  balloon,  and  them  grays  will  shore  drag 
me  over  the  dashboard  if  I  don't  kill  some  of  this 
whisky." 

He  tottered  out  as  he  spoke  and  Mr.  Bowles 
half  rose  from  his  chair.  Dixie  Lee  was  in  danger; 
she  was  in  imminent  peril  of  death!  He  must 
warn  her — he  must  help  her — he  must  try  to  save 
her  life !  He  was  in  a  fever  of  excitement  when 
the  dining-room  door  finally  swept  open  and  Dixie 
May  entered  the  room;  but  she  was  calm,  very 
calm,  and  something  about  her  bade  him  hold  his 
hand.  Then  the  barroom  door  swung  in  again 
and  the  cowboy  appeared,  walking  head  up  with 
a  masterful  stride — and  a  look  in  his  eyes  that 
Bowles  knew  all  too  well. 

"Why,  hello,  Dix!"  he  cried,  hurrying  over  and 
striking  hands  with  her.  "Well,  well,  how're  you 
comin'?  What,  don't  I  draw  nothin'?" 

"No,  you  don't!"  responded  Dixie  Lee,  step 
ping  back  as  he  impudently  offered  to  kiss  her. 
"Not  unless  it's  a  good  slap  for  not  meeting  me 
down  at  the  train !  How's  Maw  and  Paw  and  all 
the  boys  ?  Have  you  gentled  that  colt  for  me  yet  ?" 

And  so,  with  many  laughing  sallies,  they  passed 
out  into  the  cold  dawn,  leaving  Bowles  to  sit  by 
the  fire  and  stare.  But  in  her  last  glance  he  had 
read  a  challenge,  and  he  did  not  let  it  pass. 

[21] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  BAT  WING  RANCH 

A  WEEK  passed  by  while  Mr.  Bowles  pre 
pared  for  his  great  emprise,  and  then  one 
evening  as  the  sun  set  behind  the  purple  peaks  of 
the  Tortugas  and  lighted  up  the  white  walls  of 
the  big  house  on  the  hill  a  stranger  might  have 
been  seen  riding  up  toward  the  Bat  Wing  gate. 
In  fact,  he  was  seen,  and  the  round-up  cook,  who 
was  washing  supper  dishes  at  the  rear  of  the 
chuck-wagon,  delivered  himself  of  a  heartfelt 
curse. 

"What's  the  matter,  Gus?"  inquired  a  lounging 
cowboy  who  was  hovering  over  the  fire.  "Drop 
yore  dishrag?" 

"No;  and  I  don't  need  to  around  this  ranch!" 
commented  Gus  with  bitter  emphasis.  "It's  a 
common  remark  or  sayin'  that  when  you  drop 
yore  dishrag  it  means  a  visitor  is  comin' — or,  as 
some  say,  it  means  bad  luck.  Now  jest  look  at 
that  ornery  feller  comin'  up  the  road!  Can't  let 
his  hawse  out  none — can't  whip  up  a  little  and  git 
in  by  supper-time — has  to  come  draggin'  in  jest  as 
I'm  finishin'  my  work!" 

[22] 


THE  BAT  WING  RANCH 

The  cowboy  raised  himself  up  slowly  from 
crouching  on  his  heels  and  regarded  the  stranger 
intently. 

''Say,  who  is  that?"  he  said  at  last.  "Looks 
like  he  was  ridin'  that  little  bald-faced  sorrel  that 
Lon  Morrell  traded  to  Jim  Scrimsher  last  summer. 
Yes,  sir,  it's  the  very  same  hawse — that's  some 
body  from  down  Chula  Vista  way!" 

"Well,  I  don't  care  where  he  comes  from," 
grumbled  the  cook,  "as  long  as  he  comes  a-runnin' ! 
I  sure  will  be  one  happy  man  when  the  wagon 
gits  away  from  this  ranch  and  I  git  shut  of  these 
no-'count,  worthless  chuck-riders.  Well,  biscuits 
and  coffee  is  all  he  gits  now,  I  don't  care  if  he's 
a  cattle-buyer!" 

He  wiped  his  hands  carefully  on  a  clean  towel 
he  kept  hid  for  that  purpose,  pulled  out  his  long 
gray  mustaches  and  regarded  the  stranger  with  a 
baleful  stare. 

"Hoo !"  he  sneered.  "Look  at  them  shaps,  will 
you?  Ain't  them  the  fancy  pants  though!  Right 
new,  too — and  git  on  to  that  great  big  six-shooter ! 
Must  be  a  forest  ranger!" 

"Shut  up!"  said  the  cowboy  as  the  stranger 
dropped  off  at  the  gate.  "He  might  hear  ye !" 

"Don't  give  a  rip  if  he  did!"  snorted  Gus,  to 
whom  Uncle  Sam's  gay  young  forest-savers  were 
intimately  associated  with  an  extra  plate;  and, 

[23] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

grumbling  and  slamming  down  dishes,  he  returned 
to  his  manifold  duties. 

But  the  stranger  was  evidently  not  a  common 
chuck-rider;  in  fact,  so  gloriously  was  he  appar 
eled  that  the  moment  his  rigging  became  apparent 
the  idling  cowboy  made  a  swift  sneak  to  the  bunk- 
house,  where  the  boys  were  wrangling  over  a  pitch 
game,  and  turned  in  a  general  alarm. 

"Come  out,  fellers,"  he  whispered  hoarsely, 
"and  see  the  new  tenderfoot!  Hurry  up,  he's 
goin'  over  to  the  big  house!  Say,  he's  a  forest 
ranger  all  right!" 

"Nothin'  of  the  kind!"  asserted  a  burly  cow- 
puncher,  thrusting  his  head  out  the  door.  "Movin' 
picture  cowboy,  I'll  bet  a  hat!" 

The  stranger  remounted  gracefully  as  they 
gazed  out  at  him;  then  he  touched  his  jaded  sorrel 
with  the  spur  and  trotted  over  to  the  big  house 
gate — and  as  he  trotted  he  rose  rhythmically  in 
his  stirrups,  while  all  cowboy-land  stood  aghast! 

"English!"  they  gasped  in  a  chorus,  and  burst 
into  fervid  curses  as  they  stared  at  the  uncouth 
sight.  A  grown  man,  a  white  man,  and  hopping 
up  and  down  like  that !  Holy,  jumping  Jerusa 
lem!  They  beat  each  other  on  the  back  in  an 
agony  of  despair — and  yet  it  was  no  more  than 
Mr.  Bowles,  dropping  back  into  his  old  Central 
Park  habits.  To  be  sure,  the  man  who  coached 

[24] 


THE  BAT  WING  RANCH 

him  at  Chula  Vista  had  warned  him  against  it  re 
peatedly,  but  the  customs  of  a  lifetime  are  not 
wiped  out  in  a  minute,  and  to  that  extent  Mr. 
Bowles  was  still  an  Easterner. 

The  big  white  house  in  which  Henry  Lee  made 
his  home  was  a  landmark  in  southeast  Arizona. 
Some  people  merely  referred  to  it  as  "The  White 
House,"  and  though  it  was  forty  miles  from  the 
railroad  it  was  as  well  known  in  its  way  as  the 
abiding  place  of  Presidents  in  Washington.  The 
White  House  was  a  big,  square,  adobe  building, 
set  boldly  on  the  top  of  a  low  hill  and  surrounded 
by  a  broad  wooden  gallery,  from  behind  whose 
clambering  honeysuckles  and  gnarled  rose-bushes 
Mrs.  Lee  and  Dixie  May  looked  down  upon  the 
envious  world  below.  To  be  invited  up  to  the  big 
house,  to  sit  on  the  flower-scented  porch  and  listen 
to  the  soft  voices  of  the  women — that  was  a  dream 
to  which  every  cow-puncher's  heart  aspired,  al 
though  in  the  realization  many  a  bold,  adventur 
ous  man  lost  face  and  weakened.  But  to  Bowles 
the  big  house  was  the  natural  place  to  go,  and  he 
unlatched  the  gate  and  mounted  to  the  gallery 
without  a  tremor. 

Upon  the  edge  of  the  porch,  smoking  his  pipe 
and  gazing  out  over  his  domain,  sat  Henry  Lee, 
the  pioneer  cattleman  of  the  Tortugas  Valley,  and 
a  man  who  had  fought  Indians  to  get  his  start. 

[253 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

He  was  a  great  man — old  Henry  Lee — but  to 
Bowles  chiefly  distinguished  by  being  the  father 
of  Dixie  May. 

"Ah,  good-evening!"  he  began,  bringing  his 
heels  together  and  bowing.  "Are  you  Mr.  Lee?" 

The  cattleman  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  a 
calm,  appraising  eye.  He  was  a  small,  rather 
slight  man,  but  square-shouldered  and  far  from 
decrepit — also,  he  had  seen  the  procession  go  by 
for  quite  a  while,  and  he  could  judge  most  men  by 
their  faces. 

"That's  my  name,"  he  said,  rising  quietly  from 
his  place.  "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"My  name  is  Bowles,"  said  that  gentleman,  fol 
lowing  the  procedure  he  thought  most  fitting  in 
one  seeking  employment.  "Mr.  Scrimsher,  of 
Chula  Vista,  has  referred  me  to  you  in  regard  to 
a  position  as  cowboy.  I  should  like  very  much  to 
get  such  a  place." 

"Sorry,  Mr.  Bowles,"  answered  Mr.  Lee, 
knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  "but  I'm  not 
taking  on  any  hands  at  present." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  murmured  the  would-be  cowboy, 
not  at  all  dismayed.  "Perhaps  there  will  be  an 
opening  for  me  later?" 

"No ;  I'm  afraid  not.  I  generally  take  on  about 
the  same  boys  every  year,  or  men  that  know  the 
country,  and  there  won't  be  any  place  for  you." 

[26] 


THE  BAT  WING  RANCH 

There  was  something  very  final  about  the  way 
that  this  was  said,  and  Bowles  paused  to  meditate. 

"Turn  your  horse  into  the  pasture  and  git  some 
supper  at  the  wagon,"  added  the  old  man,  with  a 
friendly  gesture;  but  supper  was  not  what  Bowles 
had  come  for.  He  had  come  to  get  a  job  where 
he  could  be  near  the  queen  of  his  heart,  and  per 
haps  win  her  by  some  deed  of  prowess  and  daring. 
So  he  ignored  this  tacit  dismissal  and  returned 
again  to  the  charge. 

"I  can  readily  understand,  Mr.  Lee,"  he  began, 
"why  you  hesitate  to  employ  a  stranger,  and  es 
pecially  a  man  who  has  newly  come  from  the  East, 
but  if  you  would  give  me  a  trial  for  a  few  days  I 
am  sure  you  would  find  me  a  very  willing  worker. 
I  have  come  out  here  in  order  to  learn  the  cattle 
business,  and  the  compensation  is  of  no  import 
ance  to  me  at  first;  in  fact,  I  should  be  glad  to 
work  without  pay  until  you  found  my  services  of 
value.  Perhaps  now " 

"Nope,"  interposed  the  cattleman,  shaking  his 
head  regretfully.  "I've  tried  that  before,  and  it 
don't  work.  Cow-punching  is  a  business  by  itself, 
and  it  can't  be  learned  in  a  minute;  in  fact,  a  good 
puncher  is  the  scarcest  thing  on  the  range,  and  I 
either  pay  the  top  price  or  I  don't  take  a  man  on  at 
all.  I  can't  stop  to  monkey  with  green  hands." 

Now,  this  was  pretty  direct,  and  it  was  calcu- 

[27] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

lated  to  put  the  ordinary  tenderfoot  in  his  place; 
but  Mr.  Bowles  came  from  a  self-selected  class  of 
people  who  are  accustomed  to  having  their  own 
way,  and  he  would  not  acknowledge  himself 
beaten. 

"Now,  really,  Mr.  Lee,"  he  protested,  "I  don't 
think  you  are  quite  fair  to  me  in  this.  As  I  un 
derstand  it,  your  round-up  is  just  beginning,  and  I 
am  sure  I  could  be  of  some  service — for  a  few 
days,  at  least." 

The  old  man  glanced  at  his  fancy  new  outfit, 
and  thought  he  saw  another  way  out. 

"Can  you  ride?"  he  inquired,  asking  that  first 
fatal  question  before  which  so  many  punchers  go 
down. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Bowles  politely. 

"You  mean  you  can  ride  a  gentle  horse,"  cor 
rected  Lee.  "I've  got  some  pretty  wild  ones  in  my 
bunch,  and  of  course  a  new  hand  couldn't  expect 
to  get  the  best.  Can  you  rope  ?" 

"No,  I  mean  any  horse,"  retorted  Bowles, 
avoiding  the  subject  of  roping.  "Any  horse  you 
have." 

"Hmm!"  observed  Mr.  Lee,  laying  down  his 
pipe  and  regarding  his  man  with  interest.  "Did 
you  ever  ride  any  bad  horses?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  lied  Bowles;  "several  of  them." 

"And  you  think  you  can  ride  any  horse  I've  got, 

[28] 


THE  BAT  WING  RANCH 

eh?"  mused  Lee.  "Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Mr. 
Bowles,"  he  continued,  speaking  very  deliber 
ately;  "I've  got  a  horse  in  my  remuda  that  killed 
a  man  last  fall — if  you'll  ride  him  I'll  take  you  on 
for  a  puncher." 

"Very   well,    sir,"    responded   Bowles.      "And 
thank  you  very  much.    It's  very  kind  of  you,  I'm 


sure." 


He  turned  to  go  but  the  cattleman  stopped  him 
in  his  second  stride.  His  bluff  had  been  called, 
for  it  would  never  do  to  go  to  a  show-down — not 
unless  he  wanted  a  man's  blood  on  his  hands. 

"Here!  Wait  a  minute!"  he  cried  impatiently. 
"I  don't  want  to  get  you  killed,  so  what's  the  use 
of  talking?  The  only  way  for  you  to  get  to  be  a 
cow-puncher  is  to  work  up  to  it,  the  way  every 
body  does.  I'll  give  you  a  job  as  flunky  at  twenty 
a  month  and  found,  and  if  you  make  good  I'll  put 
you  on  for  horse  wrangler.  How  does  that  strike 
you?" 

"Ah — what  are  the  duties  of  a  flunky?"  in 
quired  Bowles,  cautiously  and  without  enthusiasm. 
"You  know,  I'm  quite  content  with  your  first  pro 
posal." 

"Very  likely,"  answered  Mr.  Lee  dryly.  "But 
wait  till  you  see  the  horse.  All  a  flunky  has  to  do 
is  to  help  the  cook,  wash  the  dishes,  drag  up  a  little 
wood,  and  drive  the  bed-wagon." 

[29] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure,"  murmured 
Mr.  Bowles;  "but  I  think  I  prefer  the  other." 

"The  other  what?" 

"Why,  the  other  position — the  job  of  cow- 
puncher." 

"You  don't  think  I'll  let  you  ride  that  horse,  do 
you?"  demanded  Mr.  Lee  sternly. 

"Why — so  I  understood  you." 

The  old  cattleman  snorted  and  muttered  to 
himself.  He  had  talked  too  much  and  that  was 
all  there  was  to  it.  Now  he  would  have  to  make 
some  concessions  to  pay  for  it. 

"Listen  to  me,  young  man,"  he  said,  rising  and 
tapping  him  on  the  shoulder.  "The  horse  that 
killed  Dunbar  is  the  worst  man-eater  in  the  coun 
try — I  ought  to  have  shot  the  brute  long  ago — and 
if  you  try  to  ride  him  he'll  throw  you  before  you 
git  your  stirrup.  More'n  that,  he'll  kick  you  be 
fore  you  hit  the  ground,  and  jump  on  you  before 
you  bounce.  My  twister,  Hardy  Atkins,  won't  go 
near  'im,  and  he's  one  of  the  best  riders  in  Ari 
zona  ;  so  what's  the  use  of  talking  about  it?  Now, 
you're  a  stranger  here,  and  I'll  make  an  excep 
tion  of  you — how  about  that  flunky  job?" 

"Why— really "     Mr.   Bowles  hesitated  a 

moment.  "Perhaps  it's  only  in  the  name,  but  I'd 
rather  not  accept  such  a  menial  position.  Of 
course,  it's  very  kind  of  you  to  offer  me  the  alter 
native,  but " 

[30] 


THE  BAT  WING  RANCH 

"Now,  here!"  cried  the  cattleman  fiercely.  "I'll 
make  you  assistant  horse  wrangler,  at  thirty  dol 
lars  a  month,  and  if  you  don't  accept  I'll  tell  Hardy 
to  catch  up  the  old  man-killer  and  put  you  in  the 
hospital !  I  was  a  fool  to  talk  to  you  the  way  I 
did ;  but  don't  you  crowd  me  too  far,  young  man, 
or  you'll  find  Henry  Lee  a  man  of  his  word! 
Now,  will  you  wrangle  horses,  or  will  we  have  to 
ship  you  East?" 

Bowles  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then 
he  drew  himself  up  proudly. 

"If  the  choice  lies  between  a  menial  posi 
tion "  he  began;  and  old  Henry  brought  his 

teeth  together  with  a  click. 

"You  poor,  dam',  ignorant  tenderfoot!"  he 
raved.  "You  don't  know  when  you're  being  treat 
ed  white !  You  ain't  worth  a  cent  to  me,  sir — no, 
not  a  cent!  And  now  I'm  going  to  learn  you 
something !  I'll  ask  my  twister  to  put  the  saddle 
on  old  Dunbar  in  the  morning,  and  you'll  have  to 
ride  him,  sir,  or  own  yourself  a  coward!" 

"Very  well,  sir,"  answered  Bowles,  with  mili 
tary  stiffness.  "Very  well!  I  will  see  you  in  the 
morning,  then." 

He  bowed  and  strode  off  down  the  path,  his 
new  shaps  flapping  ponderously  as  he  walked;  and 
the  old  cattleman  brushed  his  eyes  to  drive  the 
mad  thought  away. 

[31] 


CHAPTER  IV 

BRIGHAM 

IF  his  strategic  victory  over  Henry  Lee  had 
given  Bowles,  the  pseudo  cowboy,  any  swelled- 
up  ideas  about  taking  the  Bat  Wing  outfit  by 
storm,  he  was  promptly  undeceived  when  he  went 
up  against  Gloomy  Gus,  the  cook.  Gus  had  set  the 
sour  dough  for  men  old  enough  to  be  Mr.  Bowies' 
grandfather;  men  who  were,  so  he  averred, 
the  superiors  of  any  punchers  now  living  and 
conspicuously  prompt  at  their  meals.  In  striking 
contrast  to  these  great  souls,  Bowles  had  lingered 
entirely  too  long  up  at  the  big  house;  and  when, 
after  tying  up  his  horse  and  feeding  him  some  of 
Mr.  Lee's  long-treasured  hay,  he  came  dragging 
up  to  the  chuck-wagon,  the  hour  of  grace  had 
passed.  Gloomy  Gus  was  reclining  beside  his  fire 
in  converse  with  a  red-headed  cowboy,  and  neither 
of  them  looked  up. 

"Ah,  pardon  me,"  began  Mr.  Bowles,  with 
perhaps  a  trace  of  condescension  in  his  voice; 
"can  you  tell  me  where  I  will  find  the  cook?" 

The  red-headed  cowboy  sat  like  a  graven  im- 
[32] 


BRIGHAM 

age,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire,  and  finally  the 
cook  replied. 

"You'll  find  him  right  here,  Mister,"  he  said, 
"from  four  o'clock  in  the  mornin'  till  sundown — 
and  then,  by  grab,  he  quits!" 

The  injured  emphasis  with  which  this  last  was 
enunciated  left  no  doubt  as  to  the  identity  of  the 
speaker,  and  Bowles  murmured  polite  regrets; 
but,  coming  as  he  did  from  a  land  where  cooks 
are  not  kings,  he  continued  with  the  matter  in 
hand. 

"So  sorry,"  he  purled,  "if  I  am  a  little  late; 
but  Mr.  Lee  told  me  to  come  down  here  and  ask 
you  to  give  me  some  dinner." 

"Huh !"  grunted  the  cook.  "Did  you  hear  that, 
Brigham?" 

The  cowboy  nodded  gravely  and  squinched  his 
humorous  eyes  at  the  fire.  He  was  a  burly 
young  man,  dressed  for  business  in  overalls  and 
jumper,  but  sporting  a  big  black  hat  and  a  fine 
pair  of  alligator-topped  boots;  and  from  the  way 
his  fat  cheeks  wrinkled  up  it  was  evident  he  was 
expecting  some  fun. 

The  cook  regarded  Bowles  for  a  minute  with 
evident  disapproval;  then  he  raised  himself  on  one 
elbow  and  delivered  his  ultimatum. 

"Well,  Mr.  Man,"  he  rasped,  making  his  man 
ner  as  offensive  as  possible,  "you  go  back  and  tell 

[33] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

Mr.  Lee  that  I  won't  give  you  no  dinner.  Savvy? 
Ef  you'd  come  round  when  you  first  rode  in  I 
might've  throwed  you  out  somethin',  but  now  you 
can  rustle  yore  own  grub." 

At  these  revolutionary  remarks,  Mr.  Bowles 
started,  and  for  a  moment  he  almost  forgot  his 
breeding;  then  he  withdrew  into  himself,  and  let 
the  gaucherie  pass  with  the  contempt  which  it  de 
served.  But  it  is  hard  to  be  dignified  when  you  are 
hungry,  and  after  several  minutes  of  silence  he 
addressed  himself  to  the  cowboy. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "but  is  there  any  other 
place  nearby  where  I  could  buy  a  little  food?" 

uW'y,  no,  stranger,"  returned  the  cowboy 
amiably;  "I  don't  reckon  there  is.  Why  don't 
you  pick  up  a  little  around  here?  They's  some 
coffee  in  that  pot." 

He  nodded  toward  a  large  black  coffee-pot  that 
stood  simmering  by  the  fire,  and  Bowles  cast  a 
questioning  glance  at  the  cook. 

"Hop  to  it!"  exclaimed  that  dignitary,  not  a 
little  awed  by  the  stranger's  proud  reserve. 
"They's  some  bread  in  that  can  up  there." 

But  still  Bowles  was  helpless. 

"Er — where  do  you  eat?"  he  inquired,  looking 
about  for  some  sign  of  a  table,  or  even  of  a  plate 
and  cup. 

"Anywhere!"  answered  the  cook,  with  a  large 

[34] 


BRIGHAM 

motion  of  the  hand.  Then,  as  his  guest  still  stood 
staring,  he  wearily  rose  to  his  feet.  Without  a 
word,  he  reached  down  into  a  greasy  box  and 
grabbed  out  a  tin  plate  and  cup;  from  another 
compartment  he  fished  forth  a  knife,  fork  and 
spoon;  with  a  pot-hook  he  lifted  the  cover  of  an 
immense  Dutch  oven,  thumped  an  oil-can  half-full 
of  cooked  beans,  and  slopped  a  little  coffee  out 
of  the  pot.  Then  he  let  down  the  hinged  door  to 
his  chuck-box,  spread  a  clean  white  flour  sack  on 
it,  laid  out  the  dishes  with  elaborate  solicitude, 
and  slumped  down  again  by  the  fire.  Nothing 
said — and  the  cowboy  sat  nerveless  in  his  place 
— but  Mr.  Bowles  felt  rebuked.  He  was  a  tender 
foot — an  Easterner  masquerading  as  a  cowboy — 
and  every  movement  of  the  sardonic  pot-tender 
was  calculated  to  rub  it  in  and  leave  him,  as  it  did, 
in  a  welter  of  rage  and  shame. 

From  the  oil-can  he  dipped  out  some  beans; 
he  poured  coffee  and  ate  in  silence,  not  daring  to 
ask  for  butter  or  sugar  lest  he  should  still  further 
reveal  his  ignorance;  and  when  he  had  finished 
his  meal  he  slipped  away  and  went  out  to  look  at 
his  horse.  A  piano  was  tinkling  up  at  the  big 
house,  and  the  stars  were  very  bright,  but  neither 
stars  nor  music  could  soothe  his  wounds,  and  at 
last  he  went  back  to  the  fire.  The  cook  was  gone 
now,  and  the  cowboy  also;  the  big  noise  was  in 

[35] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

the  long,  low  building  from  which  so  many  heads 
had  appeared  when  he  rode  in  from  Chula  Vista. 
He  paused  at  the  doorway,  and  listened;  then, 
bracing  himself  for  the  hazing  which  was  his  due, 
he  knocked. 

"Come  in!"  yelled  a  raucous  voice  in  an  aside 

to  the  general  uproar.  "Come  in  here No,  by 

thunder,  you  played  a  seven !  Well,  where  is  it, 
then?  Show  me,  pardner;  I'm  from  Missou'.  If 
you  played  the  jack,  where  is  it?" 

Bowles  pushed  open  the  door,  that  scraped  and 
sagged  as  he  shoved  it,  and  stepped  into  a  room 
that  was  exactly  posed  for  one  of  those  old- 
fashioned  pictures  labeled  "Evil  Associates;  or 
The  First  Step  Toward  Destruction."  At  a  long 
table,  upon  which  burned  a  smoky  lamp,  a  group 
of  roughly  dressed  men  were  wrangling  over  a 
game  of  cards,  while  other  evil-doers  looked  over 
their  shoulders  and  added  to  the  general  blas 
phemy.  A  growth  of  beard,  ranging  anywhere 
from  three  days'  to  a  week's,  served  to  give  them 
all  a  ferocious,  cave-dweller  appearance;  and  so 
intent  were  they  on  their  quarrel  that  not  a  man 
looked  up.  If  Bowles  had  expected  to  be  the 
center  of  the  stage,  it  was  from  an  exaggerated 
sense  of  his  own  importance,  for  so  lightly  was 
he  held  that  no  one  so  much  as  glanced  at  him — 
with  the  single  exception  of  the  red-headed  cow- 

[36] 


BRIGHAM 

boy,  who  was  playing  a  mouth-organ  in  the  corner 
— until  the  missing  jack  was  produced. 

A  wooden  bunk,  built  against  the  wall,  was 
weighed  down  with  a  sprawling  mass  of  long- 
limbed  men;  on  the  floor  the  canvas-covered  beds 
of  the  cowboys  were  either  thrown  flat  or  still 
doubled  up  in  rolls;  and  the  only  other  furniture 
in  sight  was  the  two  benches  by  the  table  and  a 
hot  stove  that  did  yeoman  service  as  a  cuspidor. 
The  air  was  thick  with  the  smoke  of  cigarettes, 
and  those  who  did  not  happen  to  be  smoking 
were  chewing  plug  tobacco,  but  the  thing  which 
struck  Bowles  as  most  remarkable  was  the  ac 
curacy  with  which  they  expectorated.  A  half 
oil-can  filled  with  ashes  served  as  a  mark  on  the 
farther  side ;  and  the  big,  bull-voiced  puncher  who 
had  so  casually  bid  him  come  in  was  spitting 
through  a  distant  knot-hole,  which  was  rapidly 
becoming  the  center  of  a  "Texas  Flag." 

Really,  it  was  astounding  to  Bowles,  even  after 
all  he  had  read  and  seen  enacted  on  the  films,  to 
observe  the  rude  abandon  of  these  Western 
characters,  and  particularly  in  their  speech.  Some 
how  the  Western  tales  he  had  read  had  entirely 
failed  to  catch  the  startling  imagery  of  their 
vernacular — or  perhaps  the  editors  had  cut  it  out. 
The  well-known  tendency  toward  personal  violence, 
however,  was  ever  present,  and  as  Bowles  made 

[37] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

bold  to  overlook  the  game  a  controversy  sprang  up 
which  threatened  to  result  in  bloodshed. 

The  bull-voiced  man — a  burly,  hook-nosed 
Texan,  who  answered  to  the  name  of  Buck — was 
playing  partners  with  a  tall,  slim,  quiet-spoken 
puncher  who  centered  all  his  thoughts  on  the 
cards;  and  against  them  were  ranged  a  good- 
natured  youth  called  Happy  Jack  and  the  pre 
sumptuous  cowboy  who  had  offered  to  kiss  Dixie 
Lee.  The  game  was  fast,  proceeding  by  signs 
and  grunts  and  mysterious  knocks  on  the  table, 
and  as  it  neared  its  close  and  each  man  threw 
down  his  cards  with  a  greater  vehemence,  Happy 
Jack  flipped  out  three  final  cards  and  made  a  grab 
for  the  matches.  But  this  did  not  suit  the  ideas 
of  the  bull  moose  and  his  partner,  and  they  rose 
from  their  seats  with  a  roar. 

"What  you  claim?"  demanded  Buck>  laying  a 
firm  hand  on  the  stakes. 

"High,  low,  and  the  game!"  answered  Happy 
Jack  wrathfully. 

"You  ain't  got  no  game,"  put  in  the  quiet 
puncher.  "Why  don't  you  play  yore  hand  out 
instead  of  makin'  a  grab?" 

"Here  now!"  spoke  up  Dixie  Lee's  miscreant 
friend,  leaning  half-way  across  the  table.  "You- 
all  quit  jumpin'  on  Happy  or  I'll  bust  you  on  the 
cabezon!" 

"Yes,   you   will!"   sneered   Buck,   shoving   his 

[38] 


BRIGHAM 

big  head  closer,  as  if  to  dare  the  blow.  uYou 
don't  look  bad  to  me,  Hardy  Atkins,  and  never 
did;  and  don't  you  never  think  for  a  moment  that 
you  can  run  it  over  me  and  Bill,  because  you  cain'tl 
Now  you  better  pull  in  that  ornery  face  of  yourn 
while  it's  all  together — and  we're  goin'  to  count 
them  cards,  by  this-and-that,  if  it's  the  last  act!" 

So  they  raged  and  wrangled,  apparently  on  the 
very  verge  of  a  personal  conflict;  but  as  the  play 
wore  on  Bowles  became  increasingly  aware  of  a 
contemptuous  twinkle  that  dwelt  in  the  eyes  of  the 
man  called  Hardy  Atkins.  Then  it  came  over  him 
suddenly  that  other  eyes  were  upon  him;  and  in 
stantly  the  typical  Western  scene  was  wrecked, 
and  he  saw  himself  made  the  fool.  No  burst  of 
ruffianly  laughter  gave  point  to  the  well-planned 
jest — it  passed  over  as  subtly  as  a  crisis  in  high 
society — but  as  he  turned  away  from  the  game 
Bowles  found  himself  in  possession  of  a  man-sized 
passion.  Back  where  he  came  from  an  open, 
personal  hatred  was  considered  a  little  outre ;  but 
the  spirit  of  the  wilds  had  touched  him  already, 
and  Hardy  Atkins,  the  green-eyed,  familiar  friend 
of  Dixie  Lee,  was  the  man  that  he  hoped  would 
choke. 

As  interest  in  the  pitch  game  languished  and  a 
scuffle  made  the  bunk  untenable,  stray  cowboys 
began  to  drift  outside  again,  some  to  seek  out 
their  beds  beneath  the  wagon-sheds  and  others  to 

[39] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

foregather  about  the  fire.  First  among  these  was 
the  red-headed  man  called  Brigham;  and  when 
Bowles,  after  sitting  solitary  for  a  while,  followed 
after  them,  he  found  Brigham  the  center  of  at 
traction.  Perched  upon  an  upturned  box,  and 
with  one  freckled  hand  held  out  to  keep  the  fire 
light  from  his  eyes,  he  was  holding  forth  with  a 
long  story  which  had  everybody  listening. 

uAnd  I  says  to  this  circus  feller,"  he  was  say 
ing,  "  'Well,  I  ain't  never  done  no  bareback  work, 
but  if  you  cain't  git  no  one  else  to  jump  through 
them  hoops  I'll  guarantee  to  take  the  pretty  outer 
one  of  'em.  But  you  be  mighty  p'ticular  to  pop 
that  whip  of  yourn,  pardner,'  I  says  to  the  ring 
master,  'or  that  ol'  rockin'-hawse  will  git  away 
from  me.'  ' 

He  cocked  one  eye  up  to  see  if  Bowles  was 
listening,  and  then  indulged  in  a  reminiscent 
chuckle. 

"Well,  I  climbed  up  on  that  ol'  rockin'-hawse — 
I  was  dressed  like  a  clown,  of  course — and  after 
the  regular  people  had  gone  round  the  ring  I  come 
rackin'  along  out  of  the  side-tent,  a-bowin'  to  all 
the  ladies  and  whistlin'  to  all  the  dogs,  until  you'd 
think  I  was  goin'  to  do  wonders.  But  all  the  kids 
was  on,  and  they  begin  to  laugh  and  throw  pea 
nuts,  because  they  knowed  the  clown  was  bound 
to  git  busted — that's  what  the  rascal  is  paid  fer. 

[40] 


BRIGHAM 

Well,  we  went  canterin'  around  the  ring,  me  and 
that  old  white  hawse  that  had  been  doin'  it  for 
fifteen  years,  and  every  time  we  come  to  a  hoop 
I'd  make  my  jump — the  ring-master  would  pop 
his  whip — and  when  I  come  squanderin'  out  the 
other  side  the  old  hawse  would  be  right  there  to 
ketch  me.  Trick  he  had — he'd  slow  down  and 
kinder  wait  fer  me — but  that  dogged  ring-master 
put  up  a  job  on  me — he  shore  did;  but  the 
scoundrel  tried  to  lie  out  of  it  afterwards. 

"You  see,  them  people  that  come  out  to  Coney 
they  expect  somethin'  fer  their  money,  and  bein' 
as  I  was  only  the  fill-in  man  and  the  other  feller 
was  comin'  back  anyway,  the  management  decided 
to  ditch  me.  So  when  I  made  a  jump  at  my  last 
hoop  the  ring-master  forgot  to  pop  his  whip — or 
so  he  said — and  I  come  down  on  my  head  and  like 
to  killed  me.  Well,  sir,  the  way  them  people 
hollered  you'd  think  the  king  had  come,  an'  when 
a  couple  of  fool  clowns  come  runnin'  out  and 
carried  me  off  on  a  shutter  they  laughed  till  they 
was  pretty  nigh  sick.  That's  the  way  it  is  at  Coney 
Island — unless  somebody  is  gittin'  killed,  them 
tight-wads  won't  spend  a  cent." 

The  red-headed  raconteur  laughed  a  little  to 
himself,  and,  seeing  his  audience  still  attentive,  he 
launched  out  into  another. 

"Yes,  sir!"  he  began.    "That's  a  great  place— 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

old  Coney.  You  boys  that's  never  been  off  the 
range  don't  know  what  it  is  you've  missed. 
There's  side  shows,  and  circuses,  and  shoot-the- 
chutes,  and  whirley-go-rounds,  and  Egyptian 
seeresses,  and  hot-dog  joints,  and — well,  say, 
speakin'  of  hot-dog  reminds  me  of  the  time  I  took 
the  job  of  spieler  fer  Go-Go,  the  dog-faced  boy. 
This  here  Go-Go  was  a  yaller  nigger  that  they 
had  rigged  up  like  a  cannibal  and  put  in  a  big  box 
along  with  a  lot  of  dehorned  rattlesnakes,  Gila 
monsters,  and  sech.  It  was  my  job  to  stand  up 
over  the  box,  while  the  ballyhoo  man  outside  was 
pullin'  'em  in,  and  pop  a  whip  over  this  snake- 
eatin'  cannibal,  and  let  on  like  he  was  tryin'  to 
escape.  I  had  a  little  old  pistol  that  I'd  shoot  off, 
and  then  Go-Go  would  rattle  his  chain  and  yell 
'Owww-wah!'  like  he  was  sure  eatin'  'em  alive. 

"That  was  the  barker's  cue,  and  he'd  holler  out : 
'Listen  to  the  wild  thing !  He  howls,  and  howls, 
and  howls !  Go-Go,  the  wild  boy,  the  snake-eatin* 
Igorotte  from  the  Philippines!  Step  right  in, 
ladies  and  gentlemen!  The  price  is  ten  cents, 

one  dime,  the  tenth  part  of  a  dollar '  and  all 

that  kind  of  stuff,  until  the  place  was  filled  up. 
Then  it  was  my  turn  to  spiel,  and  I'd  git  up  on  the 
box,  with  a  blacksnake  in  one  hand  and  that  little 
old  pistol  in  the  other,  and  say : 

"  'La-adies  and  gentle-men,  before  our  per- 
[42] 


BRIGHAM 

formance  begins  I  wish  to  say  a  few  words  re- 
latin'  to  Echigogo  Cabagan,  the  wild  boy  of 
Luzon.  This  strange  creature  was  captured  by 
Lieutenant  Crawford,  of  the  Seventy-ninth  Heavy 
Artillery,  in  the  wilds  of  the  Igorotte  country 
in  the  Philippines.  At  the  time  of  his  recovery  he 
was  livin'  in  the  tropical  jungles,  never  havin'  seen 
a  human  face,  an'  subsistin'  entirely  upon  poison 
ous  reptyles,  which  was  his  only  pets  and  com 
panions.  So  frequently  was  he  bit  by  these  veno 
mous  reptyles  that  Professor  Swope,  of  the  Phila 
delphia  Academy,  after  a  careful  analysis  of  his 
blood,  figgers  out  that  it  contains  seven  fluid 
ounces  of  the  deadly  poison,  or  enough  to  kill  a 
thousand  men. 

"  'On  account  of  the  requests  of  the  humane 
society,  the  mayor,  and  several  prominent  ladies 
now  present  in  the  audience,  we  will  do  our  best 
to  prevent  Go-Go  from  eatin'  his  snakes  alive 

but '  and  right  there  was  the  nigger's  cue  to 

come  in. 

"  'Oww-wah!'  he'd  yell,  shakin'  his  chain  and 
tearin'  around  in  his  box,  'Ow-woo-wah!'  And 
then  he'd  grab  up  them  pore,  sufferin'  rattlesnakes 
and  sech,  and  quile  'em  around  his  neck,  and  snap 
his  teeth  like  he  was  bitin'  heads  off — and  me, 
I'd  pop  my  whip  and  shoot  off  my  pistol,  and 
scare  them  fool  people  most  to  death. 

[43] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Well,  that  was  the  kind  of  an  outfit  it  was, 
and  one  day  when  the  nigger  was  quieted  down 
between  acts  and  playin'  with  a  rag-doll  we  had 
give  him  in  order  to  make  him  look  simple-minded- 
like,  a  big,  buck  Injun  from  the  Wild  West  Show 
come  in  with  the  bunch  and  looked  at  Go-Go 
kinder  scary-like.  You  know " 

A  noise  of  scuffling  feet  made  the  story-teller 
pause,  and  then  the  gang  of  card  players  came 
tumbling  out  of  the  bunk-house. 

"Let's  roast  some  ribs,"  said  one. 

"No,  I  want  some  bread  and  lick,"  answered 
another. 

"What's  the  matter  with  aigs?"  broke  in  a 
third. 

"Say,  you  fellers  shut  up,  will  you?"  shout 
ed  a  man  by  the  fire.  "Old  Brig's  tellin'  us  a 
story!" 

"Oh,  git  'im  a  chin-strap,"  retorted  the  bull- 
voiced  Buck.  "I  want  some  ribs!" 

"Well,  keep  still,  can't  ye?"  appealed  the 
anxious  listener;  but  silence  was  not  on  the  cards. 
The  chuck-box  was  broken  open  and  ransacked 
for  a  butcher-knife ;  then  as  Buck  went  off  to  trim 
away  the  ribs  of  the  cook's  beef,  Hardy  Atkins 
and  his  friends  made  merry  with  the  quiet  com 
pany. 

"Ridin'  'em  again,  are  you,  Brigham?"  inquired 
Happy  Jack  with  a  grin. 

[44] 


BRIGHAM 

"No,  he's  divin'  off'n  that  hundred-foot  pole!" 
observed  Poker-faced  Bill  sardonically. 

"And  never  been  outside  the  Territory!"  com 
mented  Hardy  Atkins  sotto  voce. 

Something  about  this  last  remark  seemed  to 
touch  the  loquacious  Brigham,  for  he  answered 
it  with  spirit : 

"Well,  that's  more  than  some  folks  can  say," 
he  retorted.  "I  sure  never  run  no  hawse  race 
with  the  sheriff  out  of  Texas!" 

"No,  you  pore,  ignorant  Jack  Mormon," 
jeered  Atkins;  "and  you  never  rode  no  circus 
hawse  at  Coney  Island,  neither.  I've  seen  fellers 
that  knowed  yore  kinfolks  down  on  the  river,  and 
they  swore  to  Gawd  you  never  been  outside  of 
Arizona.  More'n  that,  they  said  you  was  a  worser 
liar  than  old  Tom  Pepper — and  he  got  kicked  out 
of  hell  fer  lyinV 

A  guffaw  greeted  this  allusion  to  the  fate  of 
poor  old  Tom ;  but  Brigham  was  not  to  be  downed 
by  comparisons. 

"Yes,"  he  drawled;  "I  heerd  about  Tom  Pep 
per.  I  heerd  say  he  was  a  Texican,  and  the  only 
right  smart  one  they  was;  and  the  people  down 
there  was  so  dog  ignorant,  everything  he  told  'em 
they  thought  it  was  a  lie.  Built  up  quite  a  repu 
tation  that  way — like  me,  here.  Seems  like  every 
time  I  tell  these  Arizona  Texicans  anything,  they 
up  and  say  I'm  lyinV' 

[45] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

He  ran  his  eye  over  his  audience  and,  finding 
no  one  to  combat  him  further,  he  lapsed  into  a 
mellow  philosophy. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  cocking  his  eye  again  at  Bowles; 
"I'm  an  ignorant  kind  of  a  feller,  and  I  don't 
deny  it;  but  I  ain't  one  of  these  men  that  won't 
believe  a  thing  jest  because  I  never  seen  it.  Now, 
here's  a  gentleman  here — I  don't  even  know  his 
name — but  the  chances  are,  if  he's  ever  been  to 
Coney,  he'll  tell  you  my  stories  is  nothinV 

"How  about  that  hundred-foot  pole?"  inquired 
Poker  Bill,  as  Bowles  bowed  and  blushed. 

"Yes,  sure!"  agreed  Brigham  readily.  "We'll 
take  that  one  now  and  let  it  go  fer  the  bunch.  If 
that's  true,  they're  all  true,  eh?" 

"That's  me!"  observed  Bill  laconically. 

"All  right,  then,  stranger,"  continued  Brigham. 
"We'll  jest  leave  the  matter  with  you,  and  if  what 
I  said  ain't  true  I'll  never  open  my  head  again.  I 
was  tellin'  these  pore,  ignorant  Texas  cotton- 
pickers  that  back  at  Coney  Island  they  was  a  feller 
that  did  high  divin' — ever  see  anything  like  that? 
All  right,  then,  this  is  what  I  told  'em.  I  told  'em 
this  divin'  sport  had  a  pole  a  hundred  foot  high, 
with  a  tank  of  water  at  the  bottom  six  foot  deep 
and  mebbe  ten  foot  square,  and  when  it  come  time 
he  climbed  up  to  the  top  and  stood  on  a  little  plat 
form,  facin'  backwards  and  lookin'  into  a  pocket 

[46] 


BRIGHAM 

mirror.  Then  he  begun  to  lean  over  backwards, 
and  finally,  when  everything  was  set,  he  threw  a 
flip-flap  and  hit  that  tank  a  dead  center  without 
hurtin'  himself  a  bit.  Now,  how  about  it — is  that 
a  lie?" 

He  looked  up  at  Bowles  with  a  steady  gaze ;  and 
that  gentleman  did  not  fail  him. 

"Why,  no,"  he  said;  "really,  I  see  no  reason  to 
doubt  what  you  say.  Of  course,  I  haven't  been  to 
Coney  Island  recently,  but  «uch  events  are  quite 
a  common  occurrence  there." 

"Now,  you  see?"  inquired  Brigham  triumphant 
ly.  "This  gentleman  has  been  around  a  little. 
Back  at  Coney  them  stunts  is  nothin' !  They  don't 
even  charge  admission." 

"But  how  can  that  feller  hit  the  water  every 
time?"  argued  Bill  the  doubter,  pressing  forward 
to  fight  the  matter  out. 

"Don't  make  no  difference  how  he  does  it," 
answered  Brigham;  "that's  his  business.  If  people 
knowed  how  he  done  it,  they  wouldn't  come  to  see 
'im  no  more.  By  jicks,  I'd  jest  like  to  take  some 
of  you  fellers  back  to  New  York  and  show  you 
some  of  the  real  sights.  I  ain't  hardly  dared  to 
open  my  mouth  since  I  took  on  with  this  ignorant 
outfit,  but  now  that  I  got  a  gentleman  here  that's 
been  around  a  little  I  may  loosen  up  and  tell  you 
a  few  things." 

[47] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Oh,  my  Joe !"  groaned  Hardy  Atkins,  making 
a  motion  like  fanning  bees  from  his  ears.  "Hear 
the  doggone  Mormon  talk — and  never  been  outer 
the  Territory!  Been  pitchin'  hay  and  drinkin' 
ditch-water  down  on  the  Gila  all  his  life  and " 

"That's  all  right,"  retorted  Brigham  stoutly; 
"I  reckon " 

"Well,  git  out  of  the  way!"  shouted  the  voice 
of  Buck.  "And  throw  down  that  frame  so  I  can 
roast  these  ribs!" 

That  ended  the  controversy  for  the  time,  but 
before  the  ribs  were  cooked  Brigham  edged  in 
another  story — and  he  proved  it  by  Mr.  Bowles. 
It  was  a  trifle  improbable,  perhaps,  but  Bowles 
was  getting  the  spirit  of  the  Great  West  and  he 
vouched  for  it  in  every  particular.  Then  when 
the  ribs  were  done  he  cut  some  of  the  scorched 
meat  from  the  bones,  and  ate  it  half-raw  with  a 
pinch  of  salt,  for  he  was  determined  to  be  a  true 
sport.  Buck  and  Brigham  devoured  from  one  to 
two  pounds  apiece  and  gnawed  on  the  bones  like 
dogs;  but  Mr.  Bowles  was  more  moderate  in  his 
desires.  What  he  really  longed  for  was  a  bed  or 
a  place  to  sleep;  but  the  gentleman  who  had 
coached  him  on  cowboy  life — and  sold  him  his 
fancy  outfit — had  not  mentioned  the  sleeping  ac 
commodations,  and  Bowles  was  too  polite  to  in 
quire.  So  he  hung  around  until  the  last  story  was 

[48] 


BRIGHAM 

told,  and  followed  the  gang  back  to  the  bunk- 
house. 

Each  man  went  to  his  big  blanket  roll  and 
spread  it  out  for  the  night  without  a  single  glance 
at  the  suppliant,  for  a  cowboy  hates  to  share  his 
bed;  but  as  they  were  taking  off  their  boots  Brig- 
ham  Clark  spoke  up. 

"Ain't  you  got  no  bed,  stranger?"  he  inquired; 
and  when  Bowles  shook  his  head  he  looked  at 
Hardy  Atkins,  who  as  bronco-twister  and  top- 
hand  held  the  job  of  straw-boss.  A  silence  fell 
and  Bowles  glanced  about  uneasily. 

"There's  a  bed  over  there  in  the  saddle-room," 
observed  Atkins,  with  a  peculiar  smile. 

A  startled  look  went  around  the  room,  and  then 
Buck  came  in  on  the  play. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "that  feller  ain't  here  now." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  began  Bowles,  starting  to 
ward  it ;  but  he  was  halted  in  his  tracks  by  a  savage 
oath  from  Brigham. 

"Here !"  he  ordered.  "You  come  and  sleep 
with  me — that's  Dunbar's  bed!" 

"Dunbar's!"  exclaimed  Bowles  with  a  gasp. 
"Ah,  I  see !"  And  with  a  secret  shudder  he  turned 
away  from  the  dead  man's  bed  and  crept  in  next 
to  Brigham. 


[49] 


CHAPTER  V 

WA-HA-LOTE 

HE  cowboy's  day  begins  early,  no  matter  how 
he  spends  his  night.  It  was  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning  and  Bowles  was  dead  with  sleep  when 
suddenly  the  light  of  a  lantern  was  thrown  in  his 
eyes  and  he  heard  the  cook's  voice  rousing  up  the 
horse  wranglers. 

"Wranglers!"  he  rasped,  shaking  Brigham  by 
the  shoulder.  "Git  up,  Brig;  it's  almost  day!" 

"All  right,  Gus!"  answered  Brigham,  cuddling 
down  for  another  nap;  but  Gloomy  Gus  had 
awakened  too  many  generations  of  cowboys  to  be 
deceived  by  a  play  like  that,  and  on  his  way  out 
to  finish  breakfast  he  stumbled  over  Brigham's 
boots  and  woke  him  up  to  give  them  to  him.  So, 
with  many  a  yawn  and  sigh,  poor  Brigham  and  his 
fellow  wrangler  stamped  on  their  boots  and  went 
out  to  round  up  the  horse  pasture,  and  shortly  after 
ward  a  shrill  yell  from  the  cook  gave  notice  that 
breakfast  was  ready.  Five  minutes  later  he  yelled 
again  and  beat  harshly  on  a  dishpan;  then,  as  the 
rumble  of  the  horse  herd  was  heard,  he  came  and 
kicked  open  the  door. 

[50] 


WA-HA-LOTE 

"Hey,  git  up,  boys!"  he  shouted.  "Breakfast's 
waitin'  and  the  remuda  is  in  the  c'rell !  The  old 
man  will  be  down  hollerin'  'Hawses!'  before  you 
git  yore  coffee !" 

The  bite  of  the  cold  morning  air  swept  in  as 
he  stood  there  and  roused  them  at  last  to  action. 
Swiftly  Buck  and  Bill  and  Happy  Jack  rolled  out 
and  hustled  into  their  clothes;  other  men  not  yet 
known  by  name  hurried  forth  to  wash  for  break 
fast;  and  at  last  Bowles  stepped  out,  to  find  the 
sky  full  of  stars.  A  cold  wind  breathed  in  from 
the  east,  where  the  deceitful  radiance  of  the  false 
dawn  set  a  halo  on  the  distant  ridges;  and  the 
cowboy's  life,  for  the  moment,  seemed  to  offer 
very  little  to  an  errant  lover.  Around  the  cook's 
fire,  with  their  coat  collars  turned  up  to  their 
ears,  a  group  of  punchers  was  hovering  in  a  half- 
circle,  leaving  the  other  half  for  Gloomy  Gus. 
Their  teeth  chattered  in  the  frosty  silence,  and 
one  by  one  they  washed  their  faces  in  hot  water 
from  the  cook's  can  and  waited  for  the  signal  to 
eat.  Then  the  wranglers  came  in,  half  frozen 
from  their  long  ride  in  the  open  pasture,  and  as 
Brigham  poured  out  a  cup  of  coffee,  regardless, 
old  Gus  raised  the  lid  from  a  Dutch  oven,  glanced 
in  at  the  nicely  browned  biscuits  and  hollered: 

"Fly  at  it!" 

A  general  scramble  for  plates  and  cups  fol- 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

lowed;  then  a  raid  on  the  ovens  and  coffee-pots 
and  kettles;  and  inside  of  three  minutes  twenty 
men  were  crouching  on  the  ground,  each  one 
supplied  with  beans,  biscuits  and  beef — the  finest 
the  range  produced.  They  ate  and  came  back  for 
more,  and  Bowles  tried  to  follow  their  example; 
but  breakfast  at  home  had  been  served  at  a  later 
hour,  and  it  had  not  been  served  on  the  ground, 
either.  However,  he  ate  what  he  could  and  drank 
a  pint  of  coffee  that  made  him  as  brave  as  a  lion. 
It  was  real  range  coffee,  that  had  set  on  the 
grounds  over  night  and  been  boiled  for  an  hour 
in  the  morning.  It  was  strong,  and  made  him  for 
get  the  cold;  but  just  as  he  was  beginning  to  feel 
like  a  man  again  silence  fell  on  the  crowd,  and 
Henry  Lee  appeared. 

In  his  riding  boots,  and  with  a  wooden-handled 
old  Colt's  in  his  shaps,  Mr.  Lee  was  a  different 
creature  from  the  little  man  that  Bowles  had 
whipsawed  on  the  previous  evening.  He  was  a 
dominating  man,  and  as  he  stood  by  the  fire  for  a 
minute  and  waited  for  enough  light  to  rope  by, 
Mr.  Bowles  began  to  have  his  regrets.  It  is  one 
thing  to  bully-rag  a  man  on  his  front  steps,  and 
quite  another  to  ride  bronks  on  a  cold  morning. 
The  memory  of  a  man  named  Dunbar  came  over 
him,  and  he  wondered  if  he  had  died  in  the  morn 
ing,  when  his  bones  were  brittle  and  cold.  He 

[52] 


WA-HA-LOTE 

remembered  other  things,  including  Dixie  Lee, 
but  without  any  positive  inspiration;  and  he  took 
a  sneaking  pleasure  at  last  in  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Lee  appeared  to  have  forgotten  all  about  him. 

But  Henry  Lee  was  not  the  man  to  let  an  East 
ern  tenderfoot  run  it  over  him,  and  just  as  he 
called  for  horses  and  started  over  toward  the  corral 
he  said  to  Hardy  Atkins : 

"Oh,  Hardy,  catch  up  that  Dunbar  horse  and 
put  this  gentleman's  saddle  on  him,  will  you?" 

He  waved  his  hand  toward  Bowles,  whose  heart 
had  just  missed  a  beat,  and  pulled  on  a  trim  little 
glove. 

"What — Dunbar?"  gasped  the  bronco-twister, 
startled  out  of  his  calm. 

"Yes,"  returned  Lee  quietly.  "The  gentleman 
claims  he  can  ride." 

"Who — him?"  demanded  Atkins,  pointing  in 
credulously  at  the  willowy  Bowles. 

"Yes — him!"  answered  the  cattleman  firmly. 
"And  after  what  he  said  to  me  last  evening  he's 
either  got  to  ride  Dunbar  or  own  himself  a  coward 
—that's  all." 

"Oh,"  responded  the  twister,  relieved  by  the 
alternative ;  and  with  a  wink  at  Buck  and  the  rest 
of  the  crowd  he  went  rollicking  out  to  the  corral. 
By  the  usual  sort  of  telepathy  Hardy  Atkins  had 
come  to  hate  and  despise  Bowles  quite  as  heartily 

[53] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

as  Bowles  had  learned  to  hate  him,  and  the  prospect 
of  putting  the  Easterner  up  against  Dunbar  made 
his  feet  bounce  off  the  ground.  First  he  roped 
out  his  own  mount  and  saddled  him  by  the  gate; 
then,  as  the  slower  men  caught  their  horses  and 
prepared  for  the  work  of  the  day,  he  leaned 
against  the  bars  and  pointed  out  the  man-killer 
to  Bowles,  meanwhile  edging  in  his  little  talk. 

"See  that  brown  over  there?"  he  queried,  as 
Bowles  stared  breathlessly  out  over  the  sea  of 
tossing  heads.  "No,  here  he  is  now — that  wall 
eyed  devil  with  his  hip  knocked  down — he  got 
that  when  he  rared  over  and  killed  Dunbar.  Can't 
you  see  'im?  Right  over  that  bald-faced  sorrel! 
Yes,  that  hawse  that  limps  behind!" 

At  that  moment  some  impetuous  cowboy  roped 
at  his  mount  and  the  round  corral  became  a  raging 
maelstrom  of  rushing  horses,  thundering  about  in 
a  circle  and  throwing  the  dirt  twenty  feet  high; 
but  as  a  counter  movement  checked  the  charge 
and  the  wind  blew  the  dust  away,  the  lanky  form 
of  the  horse  that  killed  Dunbar  loomed  up  on  the 
edge  of  the  herd.  He  was  a  big,  raw-boned  brute, 
colored  a  sunburned,  dusty  brown,  and  a  limp  in 
his  off  hind  leg  gave  him  a  slinking,  stealthy  air; 
but  what  impressed  Bowles  the  most  was  the 
sinister  look  in  his  eyes.  If  ever  a  horse  was  a 
congenital  criminal,  Dunbar  was  the  animal.  His 

[54] 


WA-HA-LOTE 

head  was  long  and  bony  and  bulging  around  the 
ears,  and  his  eyes  were  sunk  deep,  like  a  rattle 
snake's,  and  with  a  rattlesnake's  baleful  glare.  But 
there  was  more  than  a  snaky  wildness  in  them: 
the  wicked  creature  seemed  to  be  meditating  upon 
his  awful  past,  and  scheming  greater  crimes,  until 
his  haggard,  watchful  eyes  were  set  in  a  fixed, 
brooding  stare.  He  was  a  bad  horse,  old  Dunbar, 
and  Atkins  was  there  to  play  him  up. 

"You  want  to  be  careful  not  to  hurt  that  hawse," 
he  warned,  as  Bowles  caught  his  breath  and 
started.  "The  boss  expects  to  git  a  thousand 
dollars  fer  him  at  the  Cheyenne  Rough-Riding 
Contest  next  summer.  Now  that  old  Steamboat  is 
rode,  and  Teddy  Roosevelt  is  busted,  they's  big 
money  hangin'  up  fer  a  bad  hawse.  Got  to  have 
one,  you  know.  It's  fer  the  championship  of  the 
world,  and  if  they  don't  git  another  man-killer 
they  can't  have  no  contest.  I  would've  tried  him 
myself,  but  he's  too  valuable.  How  do  you  ride — 
with  yore  stirrups  tied?  No?  Well,  I  reckon  you're 
right — likely  to  get  caught  and  killed  if  he  throws 
himself  over  back.  You  ain't  down  here  fer  a 
Wild  West  Show,  are  ye?  Uh-huh,  jest  thought 
you  might  be — knowed  you  wasn't  a  puncher. 
Well,  we'll  saddle  him  up  fer  you  now — if  you  say 
so!" 

He  lingered  significantly  on  the  last  words,  and 

[55] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

Henry  Lee,  who  was  standing  near,  half  smiled; 
but  there  must  have  been  some  sporting  blood 
back  in  the  Bowles  family  somewhere,  for  Mr. 
Bowles  merely  murmured: 

"If  you  will,  please!"  and  got  his  saddle. 

So  there  was  nothing  for  Atkins  to  do  but  go  in 
and  try  to  catch  Dunbar.  The  bronco-twister 
shook  out  his  rope,  glanced  at  the  boss,  glanced 
at  him  again,  and  dropped  reluctantly  into  the 
corral.  Hardy  Atkins  would  rather  have  taken 
a  whipping  than  put  a  saddle  on  Dunbar;  but  he 
was  up  against  it  now,  so  he  lashed  his  loop  out 
on  the  ground  and  advanced  to  make  his  throw. 
One  by  one  the  horses  that  had  gathered  about 
Dunbar  ran  off  to  the  right  or  left,  and  as  the 
old  man-killer  made  his  dash  to  escape  the  long 
rope  shot  out  with  a  lightning  swiftness  and  settled 
around  his  neck.  The  twister  passed  the  rope 
behind  him,  sat  back  on  it  and  dug  his  high  heels 
into  the  ground;  but  the  jerk  was  too  much  for  his 
hand-grip,  and  before  anyone  could  tail  on  behind 
he  let  go  and  turned  the  horse  loose. 

Then,  as  the  great  whirlpool  of  frightened 
horses  went  charging  around  the  corral,  Buck 
Buchanan,  the  man  with  the  bull-moose  voice, 
hopped  down  and  rushed  to  the  center.  Some 
one  threw  an  extra  rope  to  Hardy  Atkins,  and 
once  more  they  closed  in  on  the  outlaw.  But  the 

[56] 


WA-HA-LOTE 

horse  that  killed  Dunbar  was  better  than  the  two 
of  them,  and  soon  he  had  a  second  rope  to  trail. 
A  third  and  a  fourth  man  leaped  in  to  join  the 
conflict;  and  as  they  roped  and  ran  and  fought 
with  Dunbar  the  remuda  went  crazy  with  excite 
ment  and  threatened  to  break  down  the  fence. 

"Put  up  them  bars!"  yelled  Hardy  Atkins,  as 
a  beautiful,  dappled  black  made  a  balk  to  leap 
over  the  gate.  "Now  all  on  this  rope,  boys — 
snub  him  to  that  post — oh,  hell!"  The  pistol-like 
report  of  a  grass  rope  parting  filled  out  the  rest 
of  the  sentence.  Then  the  bronco-twister  came 
limping  over  to  the  gate  where  Bowles  arid  Henry 
Lee  were  sitting,  shaking  the  blood  from  a  freshly 
barked  knuckle. 

"We  can't  hold  the  blinkety-blank,"  he  an 
nounced,  gazing  defiantly  at  the  boss.  "And 
what's  the  use,  anyhow?"  he  demanded,  petu 
lantly.  "They  ain't  a  bronk  in  the  remuda  that 
can't  throw  this  Englishman  a  mile !  Of  course, 
if  you  want  us  to  take  a  day  to  it " 

"Well,  catch  Wa-ha-lote,  then!"  snapped  Mr. 
Lee.  "And  be  quick  about  it!  I've  got  some 
thing  else  to  do,  Mr.  Bowles,"  he  observed  tartly, 
"besides  saddle  up  man-killers  for  a  man  that 
can't  sit  a  trotting-horse!" 

This  was  evidently  an  allusion  to  Mr.  Bowies' 
way  of  putting  the  English  on  a  jog-trot;  but 

[57] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

Bowles  was  too  much  interested  to  resent  it.  He 
was  watching  Hardy  Atkins  advancing  on  the 
dappled  black  that  had  tried  to  jump  the  bars. 

"Oh,"  he  cried  enthusiastically,  "is  that  the 
horse  you  mean?  Oh,  isn't  he  a  beautiful  creature  1 
It's  so  kind  of  you  to  make  the  change!" 

"Ye-es!"  drawled  Mr.  Lee;  and  all  the  cow 
boys  smiled.  Next  to  Dunbar,  Wa-ha-lote  was 
the  champion  scrapper  of  the  Bat  Wing.  There 
had  been  a  day  when  he  was  gentle,  but  ever  since 
a  drunken  Texas  cowboy  had  ridden  him  with  the 
spurs  his  views  of  life  had  changed.  He  had 
decided  that  no  decent,  self-respecting  horse  would 
stand  for  such  treatment  and,  after  piling  a  few 
adventurous  bronco-busters,  had  settled  down  to 
a  life  of  ease  and  plenty.  The  finest  looking 
horse  in  the  remuda,  by  all  odds,  was  old  Wa-ha- 
lote,  the  Water-dog.  He  was  fat  and  shiny,  and 
carried  his  tail  straight  up,  like  a  banner;  the 
yellow  dapples,  like  the  spots  on  a  salamander's 
black  hide — whence  his  Mexican  name,  Wa-ha-lote 
— were  bright  and  plain  in  the  sunlight;  and  he 
held  his  head  up  high  as  he  ramped  around  the 
corral. 

The  sun  had  come  up  over  the  San  Ramon 
Mountains  while  Hardy  Atkins  was  wrestling  with 
Dunbar;  it  soared  still  higher  while  the  boys 
caught  Wa-ha-lote.  But  caught  he  was,  and 

[58] 


WA-HA-LOTE 

saddled,  for  the  horse  never  lived  that  a  bunch  of 
Texas  punchers  cannot  tie.  It  was  hot  work,  with 
skinned  knuckles  and  rope-burned  hands  to  pay 
for  it;  but  the  hour  of  revenge  was  at  hand,  and 
they  called  for  Bowles.  A  wild  look  was  in  every 
eye,  and  heaven  only  knows  what  would  have 
happened  had  he  refused;  but  the  hot  sun  and  the 
excitement  had  aroused  Mr.  Bowles  from  his  calm, 
and  he  answered  like  a  bridegroom.  Perhaps  a 
flash  of  white  up  by  the  big  house  added  impetus 
to  his  feet;  but,  be  that  as  it  may,  he  slipped 
blithely  through  the  bars  and  hurried  out  to  his 
mount. 

"Oh,  what  a  beautiful  horse!"  he  cried,  standing 
back  to  admire  his  lines.  "Do  you  need  that 
blinder  on  his  eyes?" 

"What  I  say!"  commented  Atkins,  ambiguously. 
"Now  you  pile  on  him  and  take  this  quirt,  and 
when  I  push  the  blind  up  you  holler  and  throw  it 
into  'im.  Are  you  ready?" 

"Just  a  moment!"  murmured  Bowles,  and  for 
the  space  of  half  a  minute  he  stood  patting  old 
Water-dog's  neck  where  he  stood  there,  grim  and 
waiting,  his  iron  legs  set  like  posts  and  every 
muscle  aquiver.  Then,  with  unexpected  quickness, 
he  swung  lightly  into  the  saddle  and  settled  him 
self  in  the  stirrups. 

"All  right,"  he  said.    "Release  him  I" 
[59] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Release  him  it  is!"  shouted  Atkins,  with 
brutal  exulting.  "Let  'im  go,  boys;  and — yee- 
pahf" 

He  raised  the  blind  with  a  single  jerk,  leaped 
back,  and  warped  Wa-ha-lote  over  the  rump  with 
a  coil  of  rope.  Other  men  did  as  much,  or  more ; 
and  Bowles  did  not  forget  to  holler. 

"Get  up,  old  fellow!"  he  shouted. 

As  the  lashes  fell,  Wa-ha-lote  made  one  mighty 
plunge — and  stopped.  Then,  as  the  crowd  scat 
tered,  he  shook  out  his  mane  and  charged 
straight  at  the  high,  pole  gate.  A  shout  went  up, 
and  a  cry  of  warning,  and  as  the  cowboys  who 
draped  the  bars  scrambled  down  to  escape  the 
crash  Bowles  was  seen  to  lean  forward;  he  struck 
with  his  quirt,  and  Wa-ha-lote  vaulted  the  bars 
like  a  hunter.  But  even  then  he  was  not  satisfied. 
Two  panel  gates  stood  between  him  and  the  open, 
and  he  took  them  both  like  a  bird;  then  the  dust 
rose  up  in  his  wake  and  the  Bat  Wing  outfit  stood 
goggle-eyed  and  blasphemous. 

"W'y,  the  blankety-blank!"  crooned  Hardy 
Atkins. 

"Too  skeered  to  pitch!"  lamented  Buck. 

"You  hit  'im  too  hard!"  shouted  Happy  Jack. 

"But  that  feller  kin  ride!"  put  in  Brigham 
stoutly. 

"Aw,  listen  to  the  Mormon-faced  dastard!" 
[60] 


WA-HA-LOTE 

raved  Hardy  Atkins ;  and  as  the  conversation  rose 
mountain  high,  the  white  dresses  up  on  the  hill 
fluttered  back  inside  the  house.  But  when  Bowles 
came  riding  back  on  Wa-ha-lote  not  even  the 
outraged  Hardy  could  deny  that  the  Bat  Wing 
had  a  new  hand. 


[61] 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  ROUND-UP 

IT  is  an  old  saying  that  there  is  no  combination 
or  percentage  known  that  can  beat  bull  luck. 
Bowles  was  lucky;  but  he  didn't  know  how  lucky 
he  was,  never  having  seen  a  real  bronk  pitch. 
After  Wa-ha-lote  had  had  his  run  he  changed  his 
mind  again  and  decided  to  be  good,  and  when 
Bowles  galloped  him  back  to  the  ranch  he  was 
as  gentle  as  a  dog,  and  the  top  horse  in  the  remuda. 
Even  when  Bowles  started  to  rise  to  the  trot  the 
Water-dog  was  no  more  than  badly  puzzled. 

By  this  time  the  outfit  was  pouring  out  the  gate 
on  their  way  to  the  belated  round-up,  and  all 
except  the  principals  had  decided  to  take  it  as  a 
joke.  To  be  sure,  they  had  lost  an  hour's  day 
light,  and  broken  a  few  throw-ropes ;  but  the  time 
was  not  absolutely  lost.  Bowles  would  soon  draw 
a  bronk  that  would  pitch,  and  then — oh,  you 
English  dude !  They  greeted  him  kindly,  then, 
with  the  rough  good-nature  you  read  so  much 
about,  and  as  Bowles  loosened  up  they  saw  he 
was  an  easy  mark. 

"Say,  pardner,"  said  one,  "you  sure  can  jump 

[62] 


THE  ROUND-UP 

the  fences!  Where'd  you  learn  that — back  at 
Coney  Island?" 

"Coney  Island  nothin'  1"  retorted  another. 
"W'y,  Joe,  you  show  your  ignorance  I  This  gen 
tleman  is  from  England — can't  you  see  him  ride?" 

"Well,  I  knowed  all  along  he  was  goin'  to  ride 
Wa-ha-lote,"  observed  a  third,  oracularly.  "I 
could  tell  by  the  way  he  walked  up  to  him.  How's 
he  goin',  stranger — make  a  pretty  good  buggy- 
horse,  wouldn't  he?" 

"Yes,  indeed!"  beamed  Bowles.  "That  is,  I 
presume  he  would.  He  is  one  of  the  best  gaited 
animals  I  ever  rode.  A  perfect  riding  horse! 
Really,  I  can't  remember  when  I've  enjoyed  such 
a  glorious  gallop!" 

They  crowded  around  him  then,  in  an  anxious, 
attentive  cluster,  still  jabbing  their  horses  with 
the  spurs  to  keep  up  with  Henry  Lee  but  salting 
away  his  naive  remarks  for  future  reference. 

Henry  Lee  was  just  making  some  little  gathers 
near  the  home  ranch  while  he  waited  for  his 
neighbors  to  send  in  their  stray  men  for  the  big 
round-up,  and  as  the  conversation  rattled  on  in 
the  rear  he  headed  straight  for  a  range  of  hills 
to  the  south.  An  hour  of  hard  riding  followed, 
and  then,  as  they  began  to  encounter  cattle,  he 
told  off  men  by  ones  and  twos  to  drive  them  in  to 
the  cutting  ground.  Hardy  Atkins  took  another 

[63] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

bunch  of  men  and  rode  for  a  distant  point,  and 
soon  the  whole  outfit  was  strung  out  in  a  great 
circle  that  closed  in  slowly  upon  a  lonely  windmill 
that  stood  at  the  base  of  the  hills. 

As  no  one  gave  him  orders,  Bowles  tagged 
along  for  a  while  and  then  threw  in  with  Brigham, 
hoping  to  imbibe  some  much-needed  information 
about  the  cow  business  from  him;  but  a  slow, 
brooding  silence  had  come  over  that  son  of  the 
desert  and  he  confined  his  remarks  to  few  words. 

''Don't  crowd  the  cattle,"  he  said;  "and  don't 
chase  'em.  They's  nothin'  to  it— jest  watch  the 
other  hands." 

He  mogged  along  glumly  then,  spitting  tobacco 
and  looking  wise  whenever  Bowles  made  effusive 
remarks;  and  soon  the  spirit  of  the  wide  places 
took  hold  of  the  impressionable  Easterner  and 
taught  him  to  be  still.  The  sun  was  shining 
gloriously  now,  and  the  air  was  like  new  wine; 
he  had  conquered  Wa-ha-lote,  and  won  a  job  on 
the  ranch;  yet,  even  as  the  hot  blood  coursed 
in  his  veins  and  his  heart  leaped  for  joy,  the 
solemn  silence  of  burly  Brigham  exhorted  him 
to  peace.  Nay,  more  than  that,  it  set  up  uneasy 
questionings  in  his  mind  and  made  him  ponder 
upon  what  he  had  said.  Perhaps  he  had  spoken 
foolishly  in  the  first  flush  of  his  victory;  he  might 
even  have  laid  himself  open  to  future  gibes  and 

[64] 


THE  ROUND-UP 

jests,  branding  himself  for  a  tenderfoot  with 
every  word  he  said. 

Yes,  indeed;  perhaps  he  had.  At  any  rate,  the 
first  words  he  heard  as  they  neared  the  cutting- 
grounds  were  indicative  of  the  fact. 

"Hey,  Bill!"  roared  Buck  Buchanan,  wafting 
his  bull  voice  across  the  herd.  "Release  that  Bar 
Xcow!" 

"Beg  pahdon?"  replied  Bill,  holding  his  hand 
behind  his  ear;  and  then  there  was  a  rumble  of 
Homeric  laughter  that  left  Bowles  hot  with 
shame. 

"Hey,  Buck!"  echoed  Happy  Jack,  reining  his 
horse  out  to  turn  back  an  ambling  steer ;  and  while 
all  hands  watched  him  eagerly  he  struck  into  a 
rough  trot  across  the  plain.  Then,  holding  out 
his  elbows  in  a  manner  that  he  supposed  to  be 
English,  he  bobbed  higher  and  higher  at  every 
jump  until  he  fell  face  forward  on  his  horse's 
neck,  and  the  cowboys  whooped  for  joy.  Bowles 
was  able  to  laugh  at  this  joke,  and  he  tried  to  do 
it  graciously;  but  the  sudden  wave  of  good  man 
ners  and  faultless  grammar  which  swept  over  the 
crowd  left  him  heated  and  mad  clear  through. 
Any  dreams  he  might  have  cherished  of  becoming 
the  little  tin  hero  of  the  cow  country  were 
shattered  beyond  repair,  and  he  saw  the  American 
cowboy  as  he  really  is — a  very  frail  and  human 

[65] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

creature,  who  scorns  all  things  new  and  foreign, 
and  particularly  objects  to  Eastern  tenderfeet  who 
try  to  beat  him  at  his  own  game. 

If  Bowles  had  been  piled  in  the  dirt  by  his  first 
mount  and  come  limping  forth  with  a  grin,  he 
would  have  won  a  corralful  of  friends  by  his  grit; 
as  it  was,  he  had  ridden  Wa-ha-lote,  a  horse  sup 
posed  to  be  a  rank  outlaw,  and  the  cowboys  were 
quick  to  resent  it.  Even  the  loyal  Brigham  had 
turned  against  him,  looking  on  with  a  cynical 
smile  as  he  saw  him  mocked;  and  as  for  Henry 
Lee,  he  could  not  even  get  near  him.  Scorn  and 
anger  and  a  patrician  aloofness  swept  over  Bowies' 
countenance  by  turns,  and  then  he  took  Brigham's 
unspoken  counsel  and  let  the  heathen  rage.  It 
was  hard  on  his  pride,  but  he  schooled  himself  to 
endure  it;  and  as  cant  phrase  after  cant  phrase 
came  back  at  him  and  he  realized  how  loosely  he 
had  talked  he  decided  in  the  future  to  keep  his 
mouth  shut.  So  far,  at  least,  he  had  caught  the 
great  spirit  of  the  West. 

But  now  for  the  first  time  there  was  spread  out 
before  his  eyes  the  shifting  drama  of  the  cow 
country,  and  he  could  not  resist  its  appeal.  On 
the  edge  of  a  great  plain  and  within  sight  of 
jagged  rock-ribbed  mountains  he  beheld  the  herd 
of  lowing  cattle,  the  remuda  of  spare  horses,  the 
dashing  cowboys,  the  fire  with  its  heating  irons, 

[66] 


THE  ROUND-UP 

and  all  the  changing  scenes  that  go  to  make  up 
a  Western  branding.  For  a  spell  the  herd  stood 
still  while  mothers  sought  out  their  calves  and 
restless  bulls  plowed  in  and  out;  then  when  the 
clamor  and  blatting  had  lulled,  and  all  hands  had 
got  a  drink  and  made  a  change  of  horses,  a  pair 
of  ropers  rode  into  the  herd,  marking  down  each 
cow  and  calf  and  making  sure  they  were  mother 
and  offspring.  At  last,  when  Henry  Lee  and  his 
neighbors'  stray  men  were  satisfied,  the  ropers 
shook  out  their  loops,  crowded  in  on  some  un- 
branded  calf  and  flipped  the  noose  over  its  head. 
Like  automatons,  the  quick-stepping  little  cutting 
ponies  whirled  and  started  for  the  fire,  dragging 
the  calves  behind  them  by  neck  or  legs  or  feet. 
Any  way  the  rope  fell  was  good  enough  for  the 
cowboys,  and  the  ponies  came  in  on  the  lope. 

Behind  the  calf  pranced  its  frantic  mother, 
head  down  and  smelling  its  hide,  and  a  pair  of 
cowboys  stationed  for  that  purpose  rode  in  and 
turned  her  back.  Then  the  flankers  rushed  out 
and  caught  the  rope,  and  the  strong  member 
seized  the  calf  by  its  neck  and  flank  and  with  an 
upward  boost  of  the  knees  raised  its  feet  from 
the  ground  and  threw  it  flat  on  its  side.  One  held 
up  its  head,  the  other  the  hind  legs,  and  in  a  flash 
the  ear-markers  and  hot-iron  men  were  upon  it, 
to  give  it  a  brand  for  life. 

[67] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Bat  Wing!"  called  the  dragger-up,  giving  the 
mother's  brand.  There  was  a  blat,  a  puff  of 
white  smoke,  and  the  calf  was  turned  back  to  his 
"Mammy."  That  was  the  process,  very  simple 
to  the  cowboy  and  entirely  devoid  of  any  sugges 
tion  of  pain ;  but  to  Bowles  it  seemed  rather  brutal, 
and  he  went  back  to  help  hold  the  herd. 

As  one  roper  after  the  other  pursued  his  calf 
through  the  throng,  or  chased  it  over  the  plain 
while  he  made  wild  and  ineffectual  throws,  the 
great  herd  milled  and  moved  and  shifted  like  a 
thing  of  life.  At  a  distance  of  a  hundred  feet  or 
more  apart  a  circle  of  careless  punchers  sat  their 
mounts,  nominally  engaged  in  holding  the  herd 
but  mostly  loafing  on  the  job  or  talking  it  over 
in  pairs.  To  Bowles  it  seemed  that  they  were 
very  negligent  indeed,  letting  cows  walk  out  which 
could  have  been  turned  back  by  the  flip  of  a  rope, 
and  then  spurring  furiously  after  them  as  they 
made  a  break  for  the  hills.  If  a  calf  which  the  ropers 
had  failed  to  catch  came  dashing  by,  one  guard, 
or  even  two,  might  leave  his  place  to  join  in  a 
mad  pursuit,  meanwhile  leaving  Bowles  and 
Wa-ha-lote  to  patrol  the  entire  flank  of  the  herd. 
To  be  sure,  he  liked  to  do  it;  but  their  system 
seemed  very  poor  to  him,  though  he  did  not  ven 
ture  to  say  so. 

Meanwhile,  with  futile  pursuits  and  monoto- 
[68] 


THE  ROUND-UP 

nous  waits,  the  branding  dragged  slowly  along, 
and  suddenly  Bowles  realized  he  was  hungry.  He 
looked  at  his  watch  and  saw  that  it  was  nearly 
noon,  but  he  could  perceive  no  symptoms  of  din 
ner.  He  regretted  now  the  insufficient  breakfast 
which  he  had  eaten,  remembering  with  a  shade  of 
envy  the  primitive  appetite  which  had  enabled 
the  others  to  bolt  beefsteaks  like  ravening  wolves; 
also,  he  resolved  to  put  a  biscuit  in  his  pocket  the 
next  time  he  rode  out  on  the  circle.  But  this 
availed  him  nothing  in  his  extremity,  and  as  the 
others  sought  to  assuage  their  pangs  with  brown- 
paper  cigarettes  he  almost  regretted  the  freak  of 
nicety  which  had  kept  him  from  learning  to  smoke. 
It  was  noon  now — seven  hours  since  breakfast — 
and  just  as  he  was  about  to  make  some  guarded 
inquiries  of  Brigham  the  work  of  branding  ceased. 
The  branders,  their  faces  grimed  and  sweaty  and 
their  hands  caked  with  blood,  pulled  on  their 
heavy  shaps  and  came  riding  up  to  the  herd;  but 
not  to  cry:  "Release  them!" 

Odious  as  these  words  had  become  to  Bowles, 
they  would  have  sounded  good  under  the  circum 
stances;  but  there  was  more  work  yet  to  come. 
Driving  a  bunch  of  old  cows  to  one  side  for  a 
"hold-up,"  Henry  Lee  and  his  strenuous  assistants 
began  cutting  out  dogie  calves.  Everything  over 
a  year  old  was  fated  to  become  a  feeder  and, 

[69] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

while  mothers  bellowed  and  their  offspring  pro 
tested,  Hardy  Atkins  and  the  best  of  the  cow 
hands  hazed  the  calves  into  the  hold-up  herd.  It 
was  a  long  and  tedious  operation,  involving 
numerous  wearisome  chases  after  calves  that 
wanted  their  mothers;  and  when  at  last  it  was 
done  and  the  main  herd  was  released,  behold,  a 
lot  of  cows  and  undesirables  had  to  be  cut  back 
from  the  hold-up  herd.  Then  the  dogies  had  to 
be  separated  into  yearlings  and  "twos";  and  when 
Bowles  was  about  ready  to  drop  off  his  horse  from 
weakness  Henry  Lee  detailed  a  bunch  of  unfor 
tunates  to  drive  up  the  calves,  and  turned  his  pony 
toward  home.  To  him  it  was  just  a  little  gather 
while  the  neighbors  were  sending  in  their  men; 
but  to  Bowles  it  combined  the  extreme  hardships 
of  a  round-up  with  the  rigors  of  a  forty  days'  fast. 
In  a  way  it  was  all  Bowies'  fault,  too,  for  he 
had  kept  the  whole  outfit  waiting  while  he  made  a 
bluff  at  riding  Dunbar.  His  resolution  to  keep 
his  mouth  shut  stood  him  in  good  stead  now,  for  a 
hungry  man  is  a  wolf  and  will  fight  if  you  say  a 
word.  There  were  no  gay  quips  and  gags  now,  no 
English  riding  and  classic  quotations;  every  man 
threw  the  spurs  into  his  horse  and  started  on  a 
run  for  camp.  Wa-ha-lote  pulled  at  the  bit  a 
time  or  two  at  this,  and  Bowles  did  not  try  to 
restrain  him;  he  broke  into  a  gallop,  free  and 

[70] 


THE  ROUND-UP 

sweeping  as  the  wind,  and  the  tired  cutting  horses 
fell  behind;  then  as  the  ranch  showed  up  in  the 
distance  he  settled  down  to  a  tireless  lope,  eating 
up  the  hurrying  miles  until  Bowles  could  have 
hugged  him  for  joy. 

Here  was  a  horse  of  a  thousand — this  black, 
named  in  an  alien  tongue  Wa-ha-lote — and  he 
longed  as  he  rode  into  the  ranch  to  give  him  some 
token  of  friendship — a  lump  of  sugar,  or  whatever 
these  desert  horses  liked  best  to  eat — in  order  to 
hold  his  regard.  So  he  trotted  over  to  the  cook's 
wagon,  being  extremely  careful  not  to  bob,  and 
asked  Gloomy  Gus  for  a  lump  of  sugar.  Now 
Gus,  as  it  happened,  was  in  another  bad  humor, 
due  to  the  boys'  being  an  hour  or  so  late,  and  to 
a  second  matter  of  which  Bowles  knew  nothing; 
and  he  did  not  even  so  much  as  vouchsafe  an 
answer  to  his  request. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  began  Bowles  again, 
when  it  was  evident  he  was  not  going  to  get  the 
sugar.  "Perhaps  you  will  give  me  a  biscuit,  then. 
You  see,"  he  explained  rather  shamefacedly,  "I 
am  riding  this  horse  for  the  first  time,  and  he  has 
been  so  gentle  I  wanted  to  give  him  something. 
Any  little  thing,  you  know7,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to 
pay  for  it " 

"I  am  not  cookin'  fer  hawses!"  observed 
Gloomy  Gus;  but  at  the  same  time  he  glanced 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

apprehensively  toward  a  long  pile  of  cord-wood 
which  flanked  his  fire  to  the  south;  and  as  if  to 
verify  his  suspicions  a  summer  hat  appeared  from 
behind  the  tiers  of  crooked  juniper  and  a  lady 
stepped  into  view.  She  was  a  very  beautiful  lady, 
middle-aged  and  with  haunting  brown  eyes;  and 
the  moment  she  turned  them  upon  Bowles  he 
knew  she  was  Dixie  Lee's  mother.  Not  that  she 
looked  so  much  like  the  elusive  Dixie  May,  but 
she  had  the  same  way  with  her  eyes — and,  besides 
that,  she  was  very  contained  and  quiet,  and  looked 
as  if  she  came  from  the  East.  She  gazed  at  him 
for  a  moment  with  a  kind,  motherly  air — as  if 
she  had  heard  all  he  said — and  addressed  herself 
to  the  cook. 

"Well,  really,  Gus,"  she  began,  speaking  in  the 
low-pitched  tones  of  the  drawing-room,  "I  can't 
imagine  what  happens  to  those  eggs.  I  have  over 
forty  hens,  and  surely  they  lay  more  than  seven 
eggs  a  day.  There's  one  nest,  away  in  there, 
but " 

"Well,  /  ain't  took  none,"  grumbled  Gus,  turn 
ing  sulkily  to  his  pots  and  kettles;  "that's  all  I  got 
to  say." 

"Pardon  me,"  broke  in  Bowles,  swinging  lightly 
down  from  his  horse  and  standing  hat  in  hand, 

"perhaps  I  could  creep  in  and "  He  smiled 

as  he  had  smiled  at  the  ladies  who  attended  the 

[72] 


THE  ROUND-UP 

Wordsworth  Society,  and  Mrs.  Lee  glanced  at 
him  approvingly. 

"Oh,  don't  trouble  yourself,"  she  said  politely. 
"If  it  were  humanly  possible  to  reach  them,  I  am 
sure  they  would  be  gone  by  now.  I  didn't  mean 
to  blame  you  at  all,  Mr.  Mosby," — this  to  the 
cook — "but,  really,  I  was  trying  to  save  enough 
eggs  to  make  the  boys  a  cake." 

A  wave  of  indignation  swept  over  Bowles.  He 
remembered  those  graceless  "boys"  roasting  eggs 
by  the  fire  at  night,  and  he  thought  how  little  they 
deserved  her  kindness;  but  all  he  did  was  to  mur 
mur  his  appreciation.  At  this  the  lady  looked  at 
him  again,  like  one  who  knows  her  own  kind,  and 
her  voice  was  very  pleasant  as  she  said : 

"Oh,  you  are  the  young  man  that  rode  Wa-ha- 
lote  this  morning,  aren't  you?  Ah,  he  is  such  a 
beautiful  horse !"  She  came  over  and  stroked  his 
neck  thoughtfully  while  Bowles  stood  by  his  head 
and  smiled.  "Don't  you  know,"  she  said,  "I  have 
always  claimed  that  a  horse  could  be  conquered  by 
kindness.  And  I'm  so  glad!"  she  murmured, 
with  a  confidential  touch  of  the  hand.  "Won't 
you  come  up  to  the  house,  and  I'll  give  you  that 
lump  of  sugar." 


[73] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  QUEEN  AT  HOME 

THE  Bat  Wing  ranch,  with  its  big  white  house 
on  the  hill,  its  whirling  windmill,  its  tank 
that  spread  out  like  a  lake  and  gleamed  like  liquid 
silver,  its  pole  corrals,  its  adobe  houses  half  shaded 
by  wind-tossed  cottonwoods,  was  one  of  the  most 
sightly  in  Arizona.  The  yellow-white  sheen  of 
the  bunch  grass  made  the  distance  seem  fair  and 
inviting;  at  sunset  the  saw-toothed  summits  of  the 
Tortugas  changed  to  blues  and  purples  and  mys 
terious,  canon-deep  black;  the  heavy  bunches  of 
sacaton  out  in  the  horse  pasture  gleamed  white  in 
the  evening  glow.  Many  riders  passed  by  that 
way,  rigged  out  in  the  finery  of  their  kind,  and 
most  of  them  took  it  all  in — and  yet,  at  times,  the 
place  looked  kind  of  bare  and  tame. 

Bowles  was  a  stranger  to  those  parts  and  he 
admired  the  landscape  mightily;  but  to  him  too  it 
seemed  a  little  bare.  It  needed  a  dash  of  color, 
a  vigorous  girlish  figure  in  the  foreground,  to  give 
it  the  last  vivid  touch.  But  the  queen,  of  course, 
must  be  humored — let  the  picture  wait !  So  Bowles 
waited,  along  with  the  rest  of  the  bunch,  and  in 

[74] 


THE  QUEEN  AT  HOME 

the  evening  while  they  were  at  their  supper  the 
Queen  of  the  Bat  Wing  came.  At  the  Words 
worth  Society  she  had  been  stunningly  gowned  in  a 
creation  which  Bowles  would  not  soon  forget;  on 
the  train  she  had  worn  a  tailored  traveling  dress, 
very  severe  and  becoming,  the  only  note  of  defiance 
being  in  the  hat,  which  was  her  Western  sombrero 
with  a  veil  to  take  off  the  curse.  But  now  the 
trimming  was  gone,  and  a  silver-buckled,  horse 
hair  band  took  its  place.  Dixie  May  was  back  on 
her  own  range  and  she  wore  what  clothes  she 
pleased! 

First  there  was  the  hat,  a  trim,  fifteen-dollar 
Stetson  held  on  by  a  strap  that  lapped  behind; 
then  a  white  shirt-waist  to  supply  the  touch  of 
color;  a  divided  skirt  of  golden-brown  corduroy; 
and  high-heeled  cowboy  boots,  very  tiny,  and 
supplied  with  silver-mounted  spurs,  ornate  with 
Mexican  conchos.  She  wore  a  quirt  on  her  wrist, 
and  her  hair  in  Indian  braids,  and  a  fine  coat  of 
newly  acquired  tan  on  her  cheeks. 

A  silence  fell  on  the  squatting  punchers  as  she 
ran  lightly  down  from  the  house;  one  or  two  of 
them  ducked  out  of  sight  as  she  passed  through 
the  gate,  but  the  rest  sat  motionless,  stoically  feed 
ing  themselves  with  their  knives,  and  waiting  for 
the  queen  to  pass.  Only  Bowles,  the  man  from 
the  East,  rose  up  and  took  off  his  hat;  but  Dixie 

[75] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

Lee  remembered  her  promise,  and  never  so  much 
as  looked  at  him. 

"Hello,  Brig,"  she  said,  singling  out  the  blush 
ing  Brigham  for  a  teasing  grin.  "  'Evening,  Mr. 
Mosby.  Say,  Maw  sent  me  down  to  look  for 
some  eggs— she  wants  to  make  a  cake  for  these 
worthless  punchers  before  she  invites  'em  up  to 
hear  the  phonograph." 

"Well,  well,  Miss  Dix,"  responded  the  cook, 
shuffling  and  ill  at  ease.  "I'm  afraid  yore  maw 
is  goin'  to  be  disapp'inted.  If  you  can  find  any 
eggs  around  here,  you're  welcome  to  'em.  /  ain't 
got  none  hid  out — that's  all  I'll  say." 

"Oh,  I  know  where  they  go  to,  Mr.  Mosby," 
replied  Dixie  Lee,  showing  her  white  teeth  in  a 
knowing  smile.  "If  a  man  will  suck  eggs,  he'll 
steal — you  know  that  saying  yourself — and  I  can 
tell  by  the  shells  around  the  fire  here  what's  going 
on  o'  nights." 

"Oh,  that's  that  big  fat  Brigham  Clark!"  spoke 
up  Hardy  Atkins.  "You  don't  want  to  judge  the 
whole  outfit  by  him!" 

At  this  bare-faced  libel  Bowles  cleared  his 
throat  to  speak.  He  had  noticed  particularly  on 
the  evening  before  that  the  eggs  were  brought  in 
by  Happy  Jack  and  Hardy  Atkins  himself;  but 
before  he  could  enter  a  protest  a  general  rumble 
of  laughter  set  him  back  to  a  thinking  part, 

[76] 


"ONLY  BOWLES,  THE  MAX  FROM  THE  EAST,  ROSE  AND  TOOK  OFF  HIS  HAT" 

— Page  75 


THE  QUEEN  AT  HOME 

"Yes,  sir!"  observed  Buck  Buchanan,  speaking 
to  the  world  at  large.  "That  feller  sucks  aigs 
worse'n  a  setter  pup." 

"An'  he  don't  deny  it  none,  neither,"  com 
mented  Happy  Jack,  as  poor  Brigham  blushed 
deeper  and  hung  his  head. 

"Jest  born  that  way,  I  reckon,"  remarked 
Poker-face  in  a  tone  of  pity;  and  then  the  whole 
outfit  broke  into  a  whoop  of  laughter.  It  was  a 
new  form  of  jesting  to  Bowles,  and  he  retired 
to  the  shelter  of  the  wood-pile.  A  sudden  gloom 
had  come  over  his  soul,  and  it  even  affected  his 
appetite,  whetted  keen  by  the  cold,  thin  air.  Of 
course,  Dixie  Lee  had  told  him  she  would  do  so, 
but  it  seemed  rather  heartless  not  to  look  at  him. 
He  sat  down  with  his  back  against  the  jagged  juni 
per  stubs  and  listened  sullenly,  while  the  punchers 
chuckled  in  front  of  him  and  continued  to  eat  with 
their  knives. 

"Aw,  Brig's  jest  bashful,  that's  all,"  explained 
some  simple-minded  joker,  after  every  one  else 
had  had  his  say;  and  as  his  hollow  laughter  rose 
up,  Bowles  wondered  dimly  why  Brigham  did  not 
retort.  The  evening  before,  when  he  was  telling 
stories  around  the  fire,  he  had  returned  a  Roland 
for  an  Oliver  until  even  Hardy  Atkins  had  been 
content  to  quit;  but  now  he  confined  himself  to 
self-conscious  mutterings  and  exhortations  to  shut 

[77] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

up.  Perhaps  the  simple-minded  joker  was  right — 
poor  Brigham  was  bashful. 

But  Dixie  Lee  had  come  down  to  get  some  eggs 
and  she  did  not  allow  camp  persiflage  to  divert 
her  from  her  purpose. 

"Well,  say,"  she  said,  getting  up  from  the 
cook's  private  seat,  "I  came  down  to  hunt  for 
eggs — who  wants  to  help  me?" 

"That's  where  I  shine!"  cried  Hardy  Atkins, 
throwing  his  tin  plate  into  the  washtub  with  a 
great  clatter.  "They's  a  nest  around  hyer  in  the 
wood-pile!" 

He  capered  around  the  end  of  the  wood-pile, 
and  soon  Bowles  could  hear  him  panting  as  he 
forced  his  way  in  between  the  crooked  sticks. 

"Hyer  they  are!"  he  shouted  at  last.  "I  got  a 
whole  hatful — somebody  pull  me  out  by  the  laig!" 

There  was  a  ripple  of  high-pitched  laughter 
from  Dixie  Lee,  an  interval  in  which  Bowles 
cursed  his  fate  most  heartily,  and  then  a  frantic 
outcry  from  Hardy: 

"Hey,  there,  don't  pull  so  fast !  You  Dix,  you'll 
break  my  aigs!  Well,  laugh,  then,  doggone  it! 
Now  see  what  you  went  and  done !" 

A  general  shout  of  laughter  followed,  and 
Hardy  Atkins,  his  lips  pouted  out  to  play  the  fool, 
and  his  eyes  rolling  to  catch  their  laughter,  came 
ambling  around  the  wood-pile  with  a  hat  that 

[78] 


THE  QUEEN  AT  HOME 

looked  like  an  amateur  conjurer's  after  the  cele 
brated  egg  trick.  But  there  were  enough  whole 
ones  left  to  make  a  cake,  and  Happy  Jack  came 
galloping  in  with  a  hatful  from  his  own  private 
cache;  so  everybody  laughed,  though  Brigham 
looked  on  sourly  enough.  A  rapid  fire  of  barbed 
jests  followed;  then,  with  her  two  admirers  be 
hind  her  and  the  others  gazing  dumbly  on,  Dixie 
Lee  ran  lightly  back  to  the  house,  and  Bowles  had 
had  his  first  look-in  on  ranch  society.  It  did  not 
look  so  good  to  him,  either,  and  yet — well,  just  as 
Dixie  May  turned  away  she  glanced  at  him  out 
of  the  corner  of  her  eye.  To  be  sure,  it  was  one 
of  Hardy  Atkins'  raw  jokes  at  which  she  was 
laughing,  but  somehow  a  golden  glow  crept  into 
the  sunset,  and  ranch  society  did  not  seem  so  bad. 

Five  minutes  later  Dixie  Lee  was  down  at  the 
corral  bridling  a  white-faced  roan,  and  soon,  with 
Happy  Jack  for  an  escort,  she  was  galloping  away 
to  the  east  where,  like  glowworms  in  the  dusk, 
the  scattered  lights  of  settlers'  houses  showed  the 
first  beginnings  of  a  neighborhood.  The  phono 
graph  was  going  to  play  in  the  big  house  that 
evening,  and  all  the  "nesters"  were  invited. 

No  one  had  been  more  outraged  than  Henry 
Lee  when  the  first  nesters  came  in  on  his  range; 
but  latterly  he  had  come  to  regard  them  tolerantly 
as  poor,  misguided  creatures,  slightly  touched  in 

[79] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

the  head  on  the  subject  of  high-and-dry  farming. 
Having  seen  a  few  hundred  of  them  starve  out 
and  move  on,  he  had  accepted  them  as  a  necessary 
evil,  and  deemed  it  no  more  than  right,  if  the 
women-folks  wanted  to  invite  them,  to  ask  the 
few  nearest  ones  to  the  house  and  help  them  for 
get  their  misery.  So  the  whole-souled  Dixie  May 
was  off  to  call  in  the  company  while  the  cowboys 
were  scraping  their  beards  off  and  dolling  up  for 
the  dance. 

It  was  Saturday  night,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  and 
though  all  days  are  alike  to  a  puncher  his  evenings 
are  his  own  around  the  ranch.  One  by  one  the 
socially  backward  and  inept  caught  the  fever  and 
began  to  search  their  war-bags  for  silk  handker 
chiefs  and  clean  shirts.  Only  Brigham  remained 
recalcitrant,  and  no  argument  could  induce  him 
to  shave. 

"I  was  on  the  wrangle  last  night,"  he  com 
plained,  as  the  forehanded  ones  came  back  to  argue 
the  matter,  "and  I'm  short  on  my  sleep.  Say, 
lemme  be,  can't  ye — what  difference  does  it  make 
to  you  fellers,  anyway?  They  won't  be  girls 
enough  to  go  around,  nohow!" 

"Well,  come  up  and  hear  the  music,"  urged 
the  Bar  Seven  stray  man,  who  wanted  him  for 
company. 

"Mrs.  Lee  invited  you,  Brig,"  reminded 
[80] 


THE  QUEEN  AT  HOME 

Gloomy    Gus,    who    believed    that    every    man 
should  do  his  duty. 

"Aw,  it's  too  late  to  do  anything  now,"  grum 
bled  Brigham,  beginning  at  last  to  weaken.  "And 
my  beard  is  a  fright,  too!" 

"Soak  it  in  hot  water,  then!"  cried  Bar  Seven 
enthusiastically.  "Come  on,  fellers;  let's  make 
'im  do  it!  It  ain't  right — a  nice  lady  like  Mrs. 
Lee!  She'll  think  you're  'shamed  because  you 
done  stole  them  aigs!" 

"I  did  not!"  denied  Brigham  hotly. 

"Well,  come  along,  then!"  countered  Bar  Seven 
triumphantly,  "or  the  boys  will  be  tellin'  every 
body!" 

So  the  last  unwilling  victim  was  cajoled  into 
going,  and  at  a  cheery  summons  from  Dixie  May 
they  marched  up  the  hill  in  a  body.  It  was  too 
early  yet  for  the  nester  girls  to  appear,  and  while 
they  were  waiting  for  the  dance  to  begin  the 
twenty  or  more  punchers  wedged  into  the  big  front 
room  and  settled  down  to  hear  the  phonograph. 
A  cattle  ranch  without  a  phonograph  nowadays  is 
as  rare  as  a  cow  outfit  without  a  mouth-organ ;  but 
the  Lees  had  a  fine  one,  that  would  play  for  dances 
on  a  scratch,  and  a  rack  piled  high  with  classic 
records.  Mrs.  Lee  sat  beside  it,  and  after  wel 
coming  the  self-conscious  cowboys  she  asked  them 
what  they  would  have. 

[81] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"The  barnyard  one!"  somebody  called;  and  as 
the  cow  mooed,  the  pig  squealed,  and  the  hired  girl 
called  the  chickens,  the  cowboys  laughed  and  for 
got  their  feet.  Then  Caruso  sang  a  high  one, 
caught  his  breath  and  expired,  and  the  company 
shifted  in  their  seats.  That  was  not  exactly  their 
style. 

44 What's  the  matter  with  the  dog  fight?"  cried 
a  voice  from  the  corner;  and  Mrs.  Lee,  who  had 
dreams  of  elevating  their  taste,  sat  undecided, 
with  the  sextet  from  Lucia  in  her  hand. 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  the  Anvil  Chorus," 
she  suggested  by  way  of  a  concession. 

"No,  the  dog  fight!"  clamored  Hardy  Atkins 
from  the  same  corner.  Then,  quoting  from  the 
well-known  favorite,  he  inquired  in  up-stage  Irish : 
"  'Will  some  sport  kindly  let  Mr.  Ho-ogan,  the 
time-keeper,  hold  his  watch?'  ' 

"  'Faith,'  "  broke  in  Happy  Jack,  continuing 
the  selection,  "  'an'  who  will  hold  Ho-ogan,  then — 
har,  har,  har,  har,  har!'  ' 

So  contagious  was  the  spell  of  this  laughter 
that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  put  on  the 
record,  which  gave  a  dog  fight  in  Harlem  from 
the  time  the  bets  were  made  till  the  spotted  dog 
licked  and  the  place  was  raided  by  the  police.  Not 
very  elevating,  to  be  sure,  but  awfully  popular, 
and  calling  for  more  of  the  same.  Mrs.  Lee 

[82] 


THE  QUEEN  AT  HOME 

sighed  wearily  and  laid  the  sextet  aside;  then,  with 
quick  decision,  she  resigned  her  place  to  Dixie 
May  and  retired  to  a  seat  by  the  door — and,  as 
luck  would  have  it,  she  sat  down  next  to  Bowles. 

"Won't  you  take  my  chair?"  he  said,  rising 
with  all  the  gallantry  of  his  kind.  "I  enjoyed  that 
Donna  e  Mobile  of  Caruso's  so  much!" 

uOh,"  said  Mrs.  Lee,  beaming  with  pleasure, 
"you  know  it,  then!  And  do  you  care  for  it, 
too?" 

"Very  much!"  replied  Bowles,  falling  back  into 
the  familiar  formula  of  polite  conversation;  and 
by  the  time  the  phonograph  had  started  up  on 
"Casey  Jones"  they  were  deep  in  a  discussion  of 
classic  music.  As  often  happens  in  good  society, 
they  discovered  a  wonderful  similarity  in  their 
likes  and  dislikes ;  and  by  the  time  the  nester  girls 
began  to  arrive  and  the  dance  started  up  on  the 
gallery,  Bowles  was  very  popular  in  the  big  house 
— that  is,  as  far  as  the  hostess  was  concerned. 

But  the  climax  of  the  evening  came  at  the  close 
of  the  dance,  just  as  Mr.  Bowles  was  taking  his 
leave. 

"Well,  good-night,  Mrs.  Lee,"  he  murmured 
as  he  stood  in  the  half  light  of  the  porch.  "It 
was  so  kind  of  you  to  invite  us  up." 

He  paused  then  with  the  rest  of  his  politenesses 
unsaid,  for  Dixie  Lee  was  coming  down  the  hall. 

[83] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

UI  can't  say  how  much  I  have  enjoyed  talking 
with  you,  Mr.  Bowles,"  returned  the  lady,  offer 
ing  him  her  hand.  "It  takes  me  back  to  my  girl 
hood  days,  when  music  was  the  breath  of  my  life. 

Perhaps Oh,  Dixie,  have  you  met  Mr. 

Bowles  ?" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  as  their  eyes 
met  across  the  abyss,  hers  stern  and  forbidding, 
his  smiling  and  conciliatory;  and  then  Dixie  bowed 
very  stiffly. 

"Why,  not  that  I  remember,"  she  replied,  with 
a  militant  toss  of  the  head. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Lee,"  observed  Mr. 
Bowles,  bowing  formally  as  he  received  his  conge. 
"So  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance  !"  And,  mur 
muring  other  maddening  phrases,  he  bowed  him 
self  out  the  door,  leaving  Dixie  Lee  to  explain 
the  feud  in  any  way  she  chose. 


[84] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  COWBOY'S  LIFE 

AS  the  name  of  the  Deity,  to  a  cowboy,  means 
little  more  than  a  word  to  swear  by,  so  the 
holy  Sabbath  is  forgotten  as  a  day  of  rest.  Not 
that  the  hard-riding  puncher  would  not  rest  if  he 
got  the  chance,  but  the  traditions  of  the  cow  busi 
ness  make  no  allowances  for  godliness  and  ease. 
For  forty  dollars  and  found,  the  round-up  hand 
is  expected  to  work  every  day  in  the  month,  and 
take  all  his  Sundays  in  a  bunch  when  the  boss 
writes  out  his  time.  From  daylight  to  dark  are 
his  hours  of  labor,  with  horse  wrangling  and 
night-guard  to  boot;  and  yet  there  are  men  of 
elegance  and  leisure  who  try  to  crush  in  on  the  job. 
Mr.  Bowles  rolled  into  bed  a  perfect  gentleman, 
and  something  of  a  knight-errant  as  well;  but 
when  Gloomy  Gus  gave  vent  to  his  shrill  morning 
call  he  turned  in  his  blankets  and  muttered.  As 
the  dishpan  yammered  and  clashed  discordantly 
he  shuddered  like  a  craven;  and  when  Gus  finally 
kicked  open  the  door  he  could  have  cursed  like 
any  cow-puncher.  It  was  a  dreary  life  he  had 

[85] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

elected  to  follow,  a  life  of  drudgery,  hardship, 
and  discomfort,  and  with  no  compensating  ele 
ment  but  the  danger  of  getting  killed.  And  all 
for  the  sake  of  a  girl  who  never  had  met  him 
before ! 

Bowles  crawled  out  very  slowly  and  stood  shiv-' 
ering  by  the  fire,  marveling  at  the  iron  endurance 
of  Gloomy  Gus,  and  understanding  his  gloom. 
Never  again,  he  resolved,  as  he  drank  a  pint  of 
hot  coffee,  never  again  would  he  address  Mr. 
Mosby  in  aught  but  terms  of  respect.  A  man  who 
could  stand  his  life  and  still  wear  the  mantle  of 
self-restraint  was  worthy  of  a  place  among  the 
stoics.  And  to  get  up  alone — alone  and  of  his  own 
volition — at  three-thirty  and  four  of  the  morn 
ing!  It  was  a  task  to  give  a  Spartan  pause  and 
win  an  enduring  fame  among  the  gods.  A  large 
humility  came  over  Bowles  as  he  contemplated 
the  rough  men  about  him  and  observed  how  un 
complainingly  they  accepted  their  lot.  And  they 
had  been  at  the  work  for  months  and  years — it 
was  the  second  day  for  him! 

The  cook  beat  on  his  pan,  and  at  the  thought 
of  the  long  ride  before  him  Bowles  did  his  best 
to  eat — to  eat  heartily,  ravenously,  to  gorge  him 
self  full  of  meat  against  the  hours  of  hunger  to 
come;  and,  passing  up  the  three-tined  steel  fork, 
he  went  to  it  with  his  knife  and  spoon. 

[86] 


A  COWBOY'S  LIFE 

"You  make  the  finest  biscuits  I  have  ever  eaten, 
Mr.  Mosby,"  he  observed  by  way  of  apology  as 
he  slipped  one  into  his  pocket;  and  the  sleep-weary 
eyes  of  the  cook  lighted  up  for  a  moment  before 
he  summoned  his  cynical  smile. 

"That's  what  they  all  say — when  they're 
hungry,"  he  remarked.  "Then  when  they've  et  a 
plenty  they  throw  'em  in  the  dirt." 

He  waved  his  hand  at  a  circle  of  white  spots 
that  lay  just  outside  the  firelight,  and  turned  to 
begin  his  dishwashing.  Then,  seeing  that  Mr. 
Bowles  was  still  interested,  he  dilated  on  his 
troubles. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said;  "a  cowboy  is  jest  naturally 
wasteful — if  he  wasn't,  he  wouldn't  be  a  cowboy. 
He'll  take  a  whole  biscuit  and  eat  half  of  it  and 
throw  the  other  half  away.  There  you  see  'em 
out  there,  jest  like  I  been  seein'  'em  fer  forty  years 
and  more.  It's  in  the  blood.  A  cowboy  wastes 
his  grub,  he  wastes  his  terbakker,  he  wastes  his 
money.  He  wastes  cows,  and  hawses — an'  he 
wastes  his  life.  I  got  my  opinion  of  a  man  that 
will  work  like  a  dog  fer  forty  dollars  a  month. 
These  hyer  boys  know  what  I  think  of  'em." 

The  cowboys  grinned  sheepishly  and  backed  up 
nearer  the  fire.  It  was  still  too  dark  to  rope,  and 
they  were  waiting  for  Henry  Lee;  and  the  cold 
starlight  made  them  solemn.  When  the  sun  came 

[87] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

up  and  they  got  a  horse  between  their  knees  they 
would  laugh  old  Gus  to  scorn;  now  they  listened 
to  him  soberly  in  lieu  of  sprightlier  conversation. 

"And  me,"  continued  Gloomy  Gus,  as  he  sensed 
the  heavy  silence,  "I  work  harder  than  any  of  'em. 
The  mornin'  star  don't  catch  me  in  bed — no,  sir! 
Not  after  half-past  three.  I  got  to  git  up  then 
and  mix  my  bread.  And  come  night  time,  after 
my  long  day's  work,  I  got  to  set  my  dough.  But 
I  git  paid  fer  it — eighty  dollars  a  month — and  you 
can  have  the  job  to-morrer." 

He  paused  again,  as  if  to  emphasize  the  lack 
of  bidders,  and  then  went  deftly  about  his  task. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said;  "you  don't  see  no  one 
strikin'  fer  the  job  of  cook.  That's  hard  work, 
that  is.  These  boys  all  want  to  sit  on  a  hawse 
and  see  the  world  go  by." 

Once  more  the  heavy  silence  fell  upon  them, 
and  Brigham  picked  up  a  towel  and  began  to  wipe 
the  dishes. 

"Coin'  out  to-day?"  he  inquired,  as  the  boys 
began  to  straggle  toward  the  corral. 

"That's  the  word!"  returned  the  cook.  "Din 
ner  at  the  north  well,  and  back  ag'in  fer  supper. 
Pack  up  and  unpack,  and  pack  ag'in  at  the  well. 
Then  cook  a  dinner  and  hook  up  the  hawses,  and 
cook  some  more  at  the  home.  Ef  Henry  Lee 
don't  git  me  a  flunky  pretty  soon  I'm  shore  goin' 
to  up  and  quit." 

[88] 


A  COWBOY'S  LIFE 

He  glanced  significantly  at  Bowles  as  he  finished 
this  last  remark,  but  Brigham  shook  his  head. 

"I  seen  that  Pringle  kid  come  in  yisterday,"  he 
said.  "Mebbe  you  could  git  to  have  him." 

That  closed  the  conversation,  and  Bowles 
moved  away.  He  was  sorry  for  Mr.  Mosby,  very 
sorry;  but  not  sorry  enough  to  take  a  job  as  official 
dishwasher.  Somehow  all  the  world  seemed  to 
be  in  a  conspiracy  to  make  him  flunky  to  the 
cook. 

He  hurried  over  to  the  corral,  where  the  roping 
was  going  on,  and  as  he  neared  the  gate  he  met 
the  boss  coming  out.  On  the  previous  day  Mr. 
Lee  had  seemed  a  little  under  the  dominance  of 
his  feelings,  but  this  morning  he  was  strictly 
business. 

"Mr.  Bowles,"  he  said,  "I'll  keep  my  word 
with  you  and  take  you  on  for  a  puncher.  Do  your 
work  and  keep  off  Dunbar,  and  I'll  try  to  get 
along  with  you — otherwise  you  get  your  time. 
Now  come  on  back  and  I'll  cut  you  out  a  mount." 

He  tied  his  own  horse  to  a  post,  and  swung  up 
on  the  corral  fence. 

"You  get  two  gentle  horses  and  five  bronks," 
he  continued;  uand  I'll  call  Wa-ha-lote  a  bronk." 

"Oh,  thank  you!"  began  Bowles;  but  the  boss 
checked  him  right  there. 

"You've  got  nothing  to  thank  me  for,  young 
man,"  he  said.  "I'd  rather  lose  a  top  hand  any 

[89] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

time  than  take  on  a  tenderfoot,  so  don't  think  for 
a  minute  that  I'm  stuck  on  you.  Passed  my  word, 
that's  all — and  Wa-ha-lote  forgot  to  buck.  Now  you 
see  that  gray  over  there — the  one  with  the  saddle- 
marks  on  his  back — that's  one  of  'em — he's  gentle. 
See  this  little  sorrel,  right  close — that's  Scrambled 
Eggs — he's  a  bronk.  Then  you  can  have  that  red 
roan  over  there  for  a  night  horse,  and  I'll  cut  you 
out  some  more  bronks  bymeby.  You  ride  old 
Gray  and  the  roan  for  a  while — understand? 
And  I  employ  a  twister  to  break  my  wild  stock,  so 
keep  off  of  them  bronks — if — you — please." 

He  added  this  last  as  if  he  really  meant  it,  and 
left  Bowles  to  wonder  at  his  emphasis — but  not 
for  long.  The  times  called  for  action.  He  was 
a  puncher  now,  and  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 
lasso  his  mount.  So,  shaking  out  his  new  rope, 
which  snarled  and  crawled  in  a  most  disconcerting 
fashion,  the  new  cowboy  dropped  down  into  the 
corral,  while  everybody  who  could  conveniently 
do  so  stepped  up  and  looked  over  the  fence.  But 
Bowles  had  had  a  few  days'  training  at  the  hands 
of  Jim  Scrimsher,  the  livery-stable  keeper  and 
all-round  horse  trader  and  confidence  man  at 
Chula  Vista,  and  he  shook  out  a  fairly  good  loop. 
Then,  swinging  it  above  his  head,  he  advanced 
upon  the  gray,  who  promptly  put  the  whole  herd 
between  them,  and  raced  along  next  the  fence. 

[90] 


A  COWBOY'S  LIFE 

The  roan  came  along  just  then  and  Bowles  made 
a  cast  at  him  and  caught  two  others,  who  instantly 
made  away  with  his  rope. 

A  yell  went  up  from  along  the  top  of  the  fence; 
and  with  many  shouts  of  encouragement  and 
veiled  derision,  they  threw  him  a  new  rope.  This 
was  a  worn  one  and  capable  of  dexterous  hand 
ling,  and,  with  a  set  smile  on  his  face,  Bowles 
shook  out  a  big  loop  and  advanced  cautiously 
upon  the  roan.  By  this  time  he,  too,  had  read 
the  hypnotic  message  of  the  eye,  and  had  crowded 
well  in  behind  the  main  herd,  which  was  dashing 
around  the  corral  with  ever-increasing  speed.  The 
slashing  rope-work  of  the  old  hands  had  already 
left  the  horse  herd  nervous  and  flighty,  and  some 
thing  about  the  way  Bowles  whirled  his  wide-flung 
loop  seemed  to  drive  them  into  a  frenzy.  A  shout 
of  warning  went  up,  and  then  another,  and  then, 
as  Wa-ha-lote  made  another  balk  at  the  gate, 
Hardy  Atkins  rushed  out  through  the  cloud  of 
dirt  and  signaled  him  to  stop. 

"What  do  you  want  to  do?"  he  yelled.  "Break 
down  the  fence?" 

He  edged  in  on  the  leaders  as  he  spoke  and 
soon  brought  them  to  a  halt;  then,  with  his  eyes 
on  another  horse,  he  stepped  in  close,  dragging 
his  loop,  until  suddenly  he  whipped  it  over  the 
old  gray's  head  and  jerked  him  out  of  the  herd. 

[91] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Here's  yore  hawse,"  he  said,  handing  him 
over  the  rope's  end.  "And,  say,  if  you  can't  rope 
without  swingin'  a  Mother  Hubbard,  jest  let  me 
ketch  yore  hawse !" 

"Why,   what's  the  matter?"   inquired  Bowles. 

uOh,  nawthin',"  sneered  the  bronco-twister, 
"only  it  skeers  'em  to  death — that's  all.  Old 
Henry  generally  gives  a  man  his  time  fer  swingin' 
his  loop  in  the  corral." 

Bowles  followed  along  after  him,  flushed  and 
downcast  over  his  mistake;  and  as  the  others 
saddled  their  prancing  bronks  and  went  pitching 
and  plunging  around  the  horse  lot  he  threw  his 
saddle  on  the  old,  moss-backed  gray  and  watched 
them  with  a  wholesome  awe.  Horse  after  horse, 
as  his  rider  hooked  the  stirrup,  flew  back  or 
kicked  like  a  flash.  Some  bucked  the  saddles  off 
and  had  to  be  mastered  by  brute  force.  Here 
it  was  that  the  green-eyed  Hardy  Atkins,  that  long 
and  lissom  twister  whom  he  so  heartily  despised, 
stood  out  like  a  riding  king  among  the  men.  If  a 
horse  would  not  stand,  he  held  it  by  the  ears;  if 
it  bucked  its  saddle  off,  he  seized  an  ear  in  his 
teeth,  and  hung  on  like  a  bulldog  until  the  girths 
were  cinched;  and  then,  if  the  rider  but  said  the 
word,  he  topped  it  off  in  his  place.  And  all  with 
such  a  tigerish  swing,  such  a  wild  and  masterful 
certitude,  that  even  Bowles  could  not  but  secretly 
admire  him. 

[92] 


A  COWBOY'S  LIFE 

It  was  nearing  the  first  of  April,  when  the 
wagon  went  out  on  the  round-up,  and  the  boys 
were  topping  off  their  mounts  in  order  to  gentle 
them  for  the  spring  work.  Shrill  yells  and  whoops 
went  up  as  man  after  man  uncocked  his  bronk; 
and  then,  as  the  procession  filed  out  the  gate, 
Hardy  Atkins  swung  up  on  his  own  and  went 
whipping  and  plunging  after  them.  This  was  the 
big  event  of  the  day,  and  all  hands  craned  their 
necks  to  view  it;  but  the  real  spectators  were  up 
by  the  big  white  house,  where  Dixie  Lee  and  her 
mother  stood  watching. 

"Good  boy,  Hardy!"  cried  Dixie  May,  waving 
her  hat  to  flag  him.  "Stay  with  him,  Hardy!" 
And  while  the  wild  brute  bucked  and  grunted  be 
neath  the  steady  jab  of  the  spurs  his  rider 
raised  a  slender  hand  and  waved  it  in  salute. 
Bowles  came  dragging  after  him,  sitting  up  very 
straight  on  old  Gray;  but  nobody  gave  him  a  gay 
salute  or  so  much  as  noticed  him  pass.  Big  Snake, 
the  outlaw,  was  sun-fishing  and  doing  buck-jumps, 
and  every  eye  was  upon  the  gallant  rider  who  sat 
him  so  limber  and  free — Hardy  Atkins,  bronco- 
twister,  and  top  cowboy  at  the  Bat  Wing. 

"Pitch,  then,  you  bastard,"  he  was  shouting. 
"Buck,  you  wild,  woolly  wolf — I'll  put  a  hat  on 
you!" 

Bowles  did  not  know  what  a  "hat"  was  as  he 
rode  along  out  the  gate,  but  when  the  cattle  were 

[93] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

thrown  together  and  the  wrangler  brought  up  the 
spare  horses,  he  knew.  Walking  across  the 
brushy  flat  came  Hardy  Atkins,  leading  the  worn 
and  whip-marked  Snake  at  a  slow  walk;  and  as  he 
drew  near,  Bowles  saw  the  "hat,"  a  great,  puffed- 
up  swelling,  raw  and  bloody,  where  the  spur  had 
jabbed  his  side.  And  there  was  a  look  in  the  out 
law's  haggard  eye  that  reminded  him  of  old 
Dunbar — a  wild,  homicidal  stare,  yet  tragic  with 
fear  and  pain.  As  he  reached  the  horse  herd  the 
twister  looked  back  and  regarded  his  mount  in 
tently;  then  very  cautiously  he  worked  up  to  his 
head  and  caught  him  by  the  cheek-strap. 

"Don't  you  bite  me,  you  devil,"  he  threatened 
as  the  Snake  showed  all  his  teeth,  "or  I'll  beat 
yore  brains  out  with  this  quirt!" 

The  Big  Snake  winced  and  crooked  his  neck 
sullenly;  then,  as  the  twister  snapped  up  the  stir 
rup  and  uncinched  the  saddle  with  his  free  hand, 
he  sighed  and  hung  his  head.  With  a  deft  jerk 
the  puncher  stripped  off  saddle  and  blanket;  he 
reached  up  between  his  ears  and  laid  hold  of  the 
headstall,  then  with  a  heave  he  tore  off  the  bridle 
and  landed  his  boot  in  the  Snake's  ribs. 

"Git,  you  owl-headed  old  skate!"  he  yelled; 
and  the  Snake  cow-kicked  at  him  like  a  flash  of 
light. 

"Hah!"  laughed  the  twister,  stepping  dexter- 
[94] 


A  COWBOY'S  LIFE 

ously  aside ;  and,  swinging  the  bridle  as  he  ducked, 
he  brought  the  heavy  reins  down  across  his 
mount's  rump.  Again  there  was  a  flash  of  light  as 
the  Snake  lashed  out  from  behind;  and  then  he 
limped  off  to  one  side,  his  eyes  glowing  with  im 
potent  rage  and  hate.  Bowles  looked  at  him  as  he 
lay  wearily  down  in  the  sand,  and  then  at  the  man 
who  had  conquered  him,  and  a  glow  crept  into  his 
own  eyes — a  glow  very  much  like  the  Big  Snake's. 
He  had  entered  a  new  world,  with  a  different 
standard  of  courage  and  hardihood,  and  the  first 
look  at  it  frightened  and  awed  him.  But  though 
he  knew  he  could  not  meet  its  standards  nor  meas 
ure  up  to  its  tests,  he  scorned  the  man  who  could, 
and  hated  him  for  his  rude  strength — and  his 
sympathy  went  out  to  Big  Snake,  the  outlaw. 


[95] 


CHAPTER  IX 

REDUCED  TO  THE  RANKS 

THE  last  place  in  the  world  for  a  humanitarian 
is  around  a  cow  camp,  for  everything  there 
seems  to  savor  of  cruelty  and  blood.  The  only 
anti-cruelty-to-animals  man  who  ever  made  a  win 
ning  in  the  cattle  business  was  good  old  Dr. 
Maverick,  of  Texas,  who,  when  they  made  up  the 
first  brand  book,  swore  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  cut  an  ear  or  burn  a  brand  and  craved  the 
privilege  of  letting  his  cattle  run  unmarked.  So, 
when  it  came  to  the  round-up,  the  old  doctor  re 
ceived  his  reward,  for  he  claimed  every  maverick 
in  the  bunch  and  took  them  home  for  his  own. 
This  was  a  long  time  ago,  in  the  age  of  myth  and 
fable,  and  the  doctor's  herd  has  been  sadly  deci 
mated  since  by  rustlers  and  ruthless  brand 
blotchers.  A  brand  that  can't  be  burned  over  is 
more  precious  than  rubies  now;  and  the  bigger  it 
is,  the  better. 

The  Bat  Wing  was  an  old  brand,  dating  back 
to  some  Mexican  Manuel  Ortega,  or  Mariano 
Ortiz,  who  had  writ  his  initials  large  on  the  left  hip 

[96] 


REDUCED  TO  THE  RANKS 

of  his  steers,  M  above  O,  connected.  With  years 
the  O  had  shrunk  and  the  M  spraddled  out  until  it 
looked  like  a  winged  disk — and  had  taken  on  dif 
ferent  names:  Money-bug,  from  its  resemblance 
to  a  dollar  on  the  wing;  Bat-out-o'-hell,  from  a 
similar  frontier  fancy;  until  finally  it  settled  down 
to  plain  Bat  Wing.  But  whatever  else  happened 
to  the  Bat  Wing  brand,  the  iron  never  got  any 
smaller;  in  fact,  the  reason  the  M  grew  so  big 
that  it  flew  away  with  the  O  was  because  a  calf's 
hip  widens  out  at  the  top  and  if  the  whole  space  is 
securely  covered  there  will  be  no  room  left  for 
illicit  alterations. 

This  is  all  very  interesting  and  romantic,  of 
course,  when  taken  by  itself;  but  nobody  stopped 
to  explain  it  to  Bowles,  the  humanitarian  cowboy. 
When  the  cattle  were  on  the  cutting-grounds  and 
the  branding  was  about  to  begin,  Henry  Lee  cast  a 
contemptuous  glance  at  his  new  hand  and  decided 
to  put  him  to  work. 

"Bowles,"  he  said,  "you  help  with  the  flanking." 
So  when  the  first  little  calf  came  gamboling  in 
on  the  line,  Bowles  rushed  out  and  seized  the  rope. 
Working  down  to  the  calf,  he  caught  it  by  its  neck 
and  flank  and  finally  wrestled  it  to  the  ground. 
He  was  casting  loose  the  rope  when  Buck 
Buchanan  grabbed  the  calf  by  the  upper  hind  leg, 
braced  his  boot  against  the  lower  leg,  and  sat 

[97] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

comfortably  down  behind.  Then  Happy  Jack 
came  ramping  out  with  a  red-hot  stamp-iron  and 
slapped  it  against  the  tender  hide. 

"Baaa!"  blatted  the  little  calf,  rolling  its  eyes 
until  they  showed  the  whites.  uBaaa!"  And 
then,  before  it  knew  what  was  happening,  Hardy 
Atkins  knelt  roughly  on  its  neck,  grabbed  its  left 
ear,  and  cut  away  half  of  it  at  a  single  stroke  of 
the  knife.  "Baaa !"  bellowed  the  calf,  curling 
up  its  tail;  and  as  the  blood  trickled  forth  Bowles 
felt  himself  grow  sick  and  faint. 

"Hold  his  head  up  !"  directed  Atkins;  and  then, 
with  an  impatient  yank,  he  twitched  up  the  second 
ear  and  cut  a  swallow-fork.  The  calf  writhed  and 
struggled  to  escape,  and  as  he  fought  against  it 
Bowles  caught  the  stench  of  burning  hair.  Turn 
ing,  he  discovered  Happy  Jack  still  bearing  down 
on  the  hot  iron  and  searing  it  deep  into  the  flesh. 
That  finished  Bowles,  and  he  sank  back  on  the 
ground,  turning  his  victim  loose. 

"You  want  to  hold  their  heads  up,"  remarked 
Buck  Buchanan,  and  Bowles  nodded  and  answered 
faintly.  What  he  really  wanted  was  a  chance  to 
guard  the  herd ;  but  orders  were  orders  with  Henry 
Lee,  and  if  he  failed  to  do  his  work  he  was  fired. 
Another  calf  came  in — a  big,  lusty  yearling — and 
Buck  made  a  motion  with  his  hand. 

"Ketch  that  one,"  he  directed  in  a  fatherly  tone 

[98] 


REDUCED  TO  THE  RANKS 

of  voice,  and  Bowles  staggered  out  to  do  or  die. 
But  a  yearling  calf  can  be  a  very  obstreperous 
brute  on  occasion,  and  this  one  was  hot  from  his 
run.  Within  a  minute  after  he  had  grappled  with 
it  all  thought  of  pity  had  died  out  in  Bowies' 
breast.  First  he  caught  the  bull  calf  by  the  neck 
and  flank  and  tried  to  pull  it  over;  then,  as  it 
fought  against  him  and  trampled  on  his  feet,  he 
seized  its  further  legs  and  tried  to  lift  them  up; 
failing  in  this,  he  laid  hold  of  it  in  a  frenzy  and 
tried  to  throw  it  by  main  strength. 

uGit  yore  knees  under  him,"  suggested  Buck 
from  the  middle  distance.  Then,  after  another 
period  of  waiting,  he  slouched  ponderously  out 
and  shoved  him  aside. 

"Let  me  at  'im,"  he  said.  "You're  keepin'  Bill 
waitin'  for  his  rope." 

He  felt  of  the  calf  for  a  minute  and  pushed 
him  to  make  him  change  his  feet;  then,  as  the 
yearling  started  to  step,  he  boosted  him  with  his 
knees,  heaved  him  into  the  air,  and  slammed  him 
down  on  his  side.  It  was  a  man's  job,  and  difficult 
for  the  best  of  them,  but  Bowles  didn't  know  that. 
All  he  knew  was  that  the  boss  was  watching 
him,  over  there  by  the  fire  where  he  was  keeping 
tally  on  the  brands,  and  thinking  what  a  tender 
foot  he  was.  And  he  was  right — Bowles  con 
ceded  it.  He  could  not  catch  his  horse,  he  could 

[99] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

not  ride  a  bronk,  he  could  not  even  throw  a  calf 
or  lift  it  off  the  ground.  And  his  back  ached, 
awfully. 

It  was  a  long  morning  for  Mr.  Bowles,  packed 
with  misery  and  hopeless  struggling,  like  a  night 
mare  without  end.  They  say  that  in  the  short 
time  between  the  instant  a  man  starts  falling  out 
of  bed  and  the  moment  he  hits  the  floor,  he  can 
pass  through  a  very  inferno  of  dreams,  passed 
down  from  our  tree-living  ancestors  and  striking 
terror  to  the  heart — and  yet  he  generally  wakes 
up  before  he  lands.  If  he  did  not,  so  the  old 
nurses  say,  he  would  surely,  surely  die.  The  jagged 
rocks  that  threatened  him  in  his  dream  would 
pierce  his  quivering  body  and  he  would  be  found 
dead  on  the  floor.  The  coroner  would  call  it 
heart-failure,  of  course;  and  that  was  what 
threatened  Bowles. 

He  was  saved  by  a  sound  he  had  cursed  that 
very  morning — Gloomy  Gus  beating  on  his  dish- 
pan!  Packing  all  his  kit  into  the  chuck-wagon, 
and  throwing  on  a  few  sticks  of  wood,  the  cook 
had  struck  out  through  the  dog  towns  and  across 
the  brushy  flats  and  set  up  his  fire  irons  by  the  side 
of  a  man-made  lake.  There  he  had  gone  busily 
about  his  task  without  waiting  for  the  herd  to 
come  in;  and  just  as  Bowles  was  dropping  dead, 
the  dinner-call  saved  his  life. 
[100] 


REDUCED  TO  THE  RANKS 

It  had  been  a  bad  dream,  but,  thank  Heaven,  he 
had  waked  up  before  he  struck.  A  pint  of  scalding 
coffee,  black  and  bitter  from  much  boiling,  and  he 
was  able  to  look  about;  and  as  he  disposed  of  a 
couple  of  beefsteaks  and  dipped  his  biscuits  in  the 
grease,  the  weak  place  in  his  middle  seemed  com 
forted;  and  by  the  time  he  got  around  to  the 
ufruit"  and  syrup  he  felt  almost  like  a  man  again. 
Such  jests  as  had  been  passed  upon  his  condition 
had  fallen  upon  unhearing  ears,  but  now  that  he 
was  brought  back  to  health  and  strength  he  was 
able  to  smile  grimly  at  his  appearance  as  mirrored 
in  the  honest  lake. 

His  face,  which  he  had  neglected  to  wash  before 
eating,  was  crusted  with  sweat  and  dirt  and  spotted 
with  gouts  of  blood;  his  hair  was  matted  and  dust- 
powdered;  and  in  the  bloodshot  and  haggard  orbs 
that  gazed  up  at  him  from  the  placid  depths  he 
saw  a  look  that  made  him  start.  It  was  a  cruel, 
vindictive  look,  almost  inhuman  in  its  intensity; 
and  it  came  from  flanking  bull  calves.  He  looked 
down  at  his  hands,  all  swollen  and  crabbed  from 
clutching,  and  saw  that  they  were  caked  with 
blood.  His  shirt,  too,  and  his  trim-fitting  trousers 
were  dirty  and  spattered  with  gore.  In  fact — and 
here  was  where  the  grim  smile  came  in — he  could 
hardly  be  told  from  a  real  cowboy ! 

After  dinner  the  cutting  and  branding  went  on 
[101] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

as  before,  but  with  this  important  difference — 
Bowles  flanked  only  his  share  of  the  calves.  There 
were  two  sets  of  flankers,  two  hot-iron  men,  and 
two  ear-markers,  and  the  calves  came  up  as  they 
were  caught.  A  really  ambitious  flanker,  out  for 
experience,  could  get  almost  all  the  calves ;  but  the 
only  ones  that  Bowles  ran  after  now  were  the  ones 
that  were  easy  to  throw.  If  a  yearling  came 
dancing  up  on  a  rope,  he  stepped  on  his  own  foot 
and  let  the  other  man  beat  him  to  it — either  that 
or  turned  him  over  to  Buck.  It  was  quick  work; 
but  Bowles  had  a  college  education — he  had  been 
only  six  hours  a  cowboy  when  he  learned  to 
malinger  on  the  job. 

As  for  the  rest  of  the  gang,  inured  as  they  were 
to  hard  labor,  the  branding  was  no  more  than  a 
picnic  for  them.  They  found  time  to  take  chews 
of  tobacco,  tell  stories,  and  watch  all  the  roping; 
and  if  any  calf  turned  out  to  be  too  big  for  flank 
ing  they  grabbed  him  by  the  neck  and  made  him 
run,  and  bulldogged  him,  "California  fashion." 
Happy  Jack  was  best  at  that,  and  several  times  in 
a  fit  of  emulation  he  shoved  some  puncher  aside 
and  showed  him  how  it  ought  to  be  done — but 
never  for  Bowles.  It  was  strange  how  carefully 
they  all  avoided  him — never  looking  at  him,  rarely 
addressing  him,  and  answering  his  inquiries  with  a 
[102] 


REDUCED  TO  THE  RANKS 

word.  He  was  an  alien,  a  stranger  among  them, 
and — slowly  the  truth  was  borne  in  on  him — an 
inferior. 

From  the  start  Bowles  had  taken  it  for  granted 
that  they  were  abashed,  tongue-tied  by  his  obvious 
education,  and  awed  by  his  gentlemanly  bearing. 
But  now  they  would  not  so  much  as  laugh  at  him, 
lest  it  encourage  him  to  familiarity.  Never  for  a 
minute  did  they  allow  him  to  presume  on  their 
sufferance,  and  his  remarks  fell  dead  and  flat. 
Even  Henry  Lee,  who  had  the  bearing  and  spoke 
the  language  of  a  gentleman,  refused  to  encourage 
him  by  a  word;  and  at  last  he  retired  within  him 
self,  and  saved  his  breath  for  flanking  and  his  wits 
for  dodging  work. 

If  a  cowboy  never  soldiered  on  the  job  he  would 
be  dead  before  it  came  pay-day;  but  there  are 
certain  tasks  which  cannot  be  slighted,  and  one  of 
these  is  bringing  home  the  herd.  After  the  day's 
branding  the  calves  are  cut  into  "ones"  and 
"twos,"  and  while  the  rest  of  the  outfit  troops  gaily 
homeward  somebody  must  stay  behind  and  bring 
up  the  cut.  One  of  them  must  be  a  cowman,  for 
trailing  is  an  art  in  itself,  but  the  others  are  likely 
to  be  dubs.  Certainly  no  boss  would  penalize  his 
best  hands  and  most  willing  workers  by  giving 
them  such  a  task;  and  so,  when  the  cutting  was 
[103] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

over  and  Henry  Lee  looked  around  for  a  poor 
hand,  or  one  who  had  been  soldiering  on  the  job, 
he  picked  Bowles  on  both  counts. 

"Bowles,"  he  said,  "you  help  Brigham  bring  up 
those  twos!"  And  that  was  all  there  was  to  it. 
But  to  Brigham  he  spoke  differently.  It  was 
"Brig,"  with  him;  and  instead  of  an  order  it  was 
a  request. 

"Brig,"  he  said,  "I'll  ask  you  to  take  charge 
of  the  twos.  Drive  'em  easy  and  put  'em  in  the 
north  pasture." 

"All  right,  sir,"  answered  Brigham  in  a  friend 
ly,  off-hand  way,  and  then  the  drive  began. 
Mounted  upon  a  rough-coated  bronk  that  fought 
his  bit  constantly  yet  responded  to  every  touch  of 
rein  or  spur,  the  burly  puncher  rode  back  and  forth, 
from  the  rear  to  the  flank,  and  then  up  near  the 
point;  and  when  he  had  them  strung  out  to  suit 
him  he  traveled  along  on  one  side,  while  Bowles 
brought  up  the  rear.  It  was  weary  work,  after 
the  long  day  of  flanking,  and  as  the  weaker  ones 
began  to  get  footsore  they  fell  back  to  the  drag 
and  more  than  doubled  his  labors.  At  times 
Brigham  Clark  dropped  back  and  strung  them  out 
for  him  again;  but  he  said  nothing,  chewing 
placidly  on  his  tobacco  and  giving  all  his  thought 
to  the  cattle.  Still  the  drag  increased,  and  as  they 
began  to  lag  behind,  Bowles  let  down  his  rope  and 
[104] 


REDUCED  TO  THE  RANKS 

lashed  them  with  the  loop.  It  was  then  that 
Brigham  Clark  spoke. 

"Don't  do  no  good  to  whip  'em,"  he  remarked, 
falling  back  to  string  them  out.  "They'll  travel 
as  fast  as  the  leaders — jest  let  'em  go." 

So  Bowles  put  up  his  rope  and  let  them  go,  and 
soon  they  fell  farther  behind;  but  about  the  time 
he  was  preparing  to  whip  them  anyway,  the  cow 
man  dropped  back  from  the  flank. 

"Now,  that's  the  way  to  handle  cattle,"  he  said, 
nodding  at  the  plodding  line.  "String  'em  out 
and  crowd  the  leaders — the  drag  will  take  care 
of  itself." 

At  that  he  was  gone  again;  and  for  an  hour  or 
more  he  rode  tirelessly  up  and  down  the  side, 
filling  up  every  hole  and  gap  and  shoving  the 
leaders  ahead.  The  cottonwoods  of  the  home 
ranch  showed  green  against  the  hills,  and  the  end 
of  their  drive  was  in  sight,  when  suddenly  Brig- 
ham  held  up  his  hand  to  stop. 

"Let  'em  feed  a  while,"  he  said,  as  Bowles  rode 
up  to  inquire.  "The  drag  is  gittin'  weak."  Then 
he  sat  silent  on  his  rough-haired  bronk,  his  in 
scrutable  eyes  gazing  dully  over  the  plain  to  the 
south,  and  Bowles  dropped  wearily  off  his  horse 
and  stretched  himself  out  on  the  ground.  Half 
an  hour  afterward  he  roused  up  with  a  start  just 
as  Dixie  Lee,  mounted  on  a  long,  rangy  bay,  came 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

galloping  up  the  road.  Her  eyes  were  very 
bright,  and  her  cheeks  were  flushed  from  riding 
against  the  wind,  and  as  she  reined  her  horse 
in  with  a  jerk  her  hair  framed  her  face  like  a  halo. 
But  she  did  not  see  Bowles,  though  he  stood  up 
and  took  off  his  hat. 

"Hello,  Brig,"  she  called.  "Watching  'em  pick 
the  flowers?" 

"Yes'm,"  answered  Brigham,  grinning  amiably. 
"Watchin'  'em  pluck  the  blossoms.  What's  goin' 
on  down  below  now?  Seen  you  go  down  there 
several  times." 

"Oh,  you're  still  keeping  track  of  me,  are 
you?"  queried  Dixie  Lee  gaily.  "Well,  you  want 
to  look  out,  Brigham — I'm  getting  awfully  inter 
ested  in  a  young  Texican  down  there.  He's  got 
a  nice  farm,  too— hundred  and  sixty  acres!" 

"Sure!"  agreed  Brigham.  "All  covered  with 
loco  weed  and  this  nice  white  stuff !" 

He  nodded  at  the  glistening  alkali  along  the 
flat,  and  his  eyes  twinkled  with  furtive  humor  as 
Dixie  Lee  raised  her  quirt. 

"Aw,  Brigham,"  she  chided,  "I  believe  you're 
jealous!"  She  leaned  forward  as  she  spoke,  and 
the  bay  broke  into  a  gallop,  while  Dixie  sent  a 
laugh  down  the  wind. 

"Heh,  heh,  heh,"  chuckled  Brigham,  reaching 
into  his  vest  for  a  cigarette  paper.  "That's  Dix, 
[106] 


REDUCED  TO  THE  RANKS 

all  right.  Don't  you  know,  stranger,"  he  went  on 
as  he  rolled  himself  a  smoke,  "that's  the  finest  gal 
in  Arizona.  Good  folks  an'  all  that,  but  nothin' 
stuck  up  about  her.  Heh,  heh,  mighty  nigh  ast 
her  to  marry  me  one  time,  but  couldn't  quite  cut 
it — she's  been  joshin'  me  ever  since.  Got  'em  all 
comin'  and  won't  have  none  of  'em.  Oh,  hookey, 
wisht  I  wasn't  a  common,  ornery  cow-punch!" 

He  paused  and  smoked  a  while,  still  gazing  at 
the  streak  of  dust. 

"Good  rider,  too,"  he  observed;  ubeat  most  of 
the  boys.  I  knowed  her  four  miles  away  by  sec 
tion  lines." 

Once  more  he  paused,  and  Bowles  preserved  his 
Sphinx-like  silence.  He  was  learning  the  customs 
of  the  country  fast. 

"Don't  have  any  like  her  back  where  you  come 
from,  I  reckon,"  suggested  Brigham,  his  eyes 
shining  with  local  pride;  and  Bowles  sadly  shook 
his  head.  No,  they  did  not — there  was  no  one 
like  Dixie  Lee. 


[107] 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    FIRST   SMILE 

THE  next  three  days  were  one  long,  aching 
agony  for  Bowles.  He  carried  a  little  water 
for  Gloomy  Gus,  but  stubbornly  refused  the  job 
of  flunky.  He  helped  the  horse  wrangler — a 
wild-eyed  youth  who  could  pop  a  rope  like  a 
pistol-shot  and  yell  like  a  murdering  Apache — but 
as  resolutely  refused  the  job  of  assistant.  He  had 
been  taken  on  as  a  cowboy,  and  a  cowboy  he  tried 
to  be,  though  every  nerve  and  muscle  called  a  halt. 
From  the  first  morning,  when  they  sent  him  out  in 
the  dark  to  wrangle  the  horse  pasture,  to  the 
third  evening,  when  he  crawled  wearily  into  an 
old  "bed"  that  he  had  picked  up,  his  life  was  a 
prolonged  succession  of  accidents,  mistakes,  and 
awkward  happenings;  yet  he  stayed  with  it,  bull- 
headed  and  determined,  until  Henry  Lee  grew 
tired  of  hazing  him  and  put  him  on  the  day-herd 
to  get  healed  up. 

There  was  very  little  left  of  the  lily-white  Mr. 
Bowles  when  the  ordeal  came  to  an  end.     His 
hands  that  had  been  so  trim  and  slender  were 
[108] 


THE  FIRST  SMILE 

swelled  up  too  big  for  his  gloves.  The  outside 
was  raw  with  sunburn  and  wind-chap  and  the  in 
side  was  blistered  and  rope-worn.  His  lips  had 
cracked  wide  open  from  the  dry  north  wind,  and 
his  face  was  beginning  to  peel  like  a  snake.  Also 
his  arms  had  been  nearly  jerked  from  the  sockets 
by  a  horse  he  had  tried  to  hold,  and  a  calf  had 
kicked  him  in  the  leg  while  he  was  trying  to  bull 
dog  it  at  the  branding.  Like  the  cowboy  in  the 
ballad,  "he  was  busted  from  his  somber  to  his 
heel,"  but  he  had  managed  to  come  through  alive. 
And  now,  as  a  reward  for  his  prowess  and  daring, 
he  was  set  to  mind  the  day-herd. 

Grass  was  short  in  the  Bat  Wing  pastures,  and 
every  day  brought  in  new  herds  of  dogies  to  be 
held  for  the  April  shipping;  so,  just  to  keep  all 
hands  busy  and  save  a  little  feed,  Henry  Lee 
turned  his  gentle  cattle  out  on  to  the  prairie  to 
rustle  what  provender  they  could.  Now  riding 
day-herd  is  not  supposed  to  be  a  very  high-grade 
or  desirable  occupation,  and  good  punchers  have 
been  known  to  quit  a  boss  who  put  them  at  it ;  but 
Bowles  was  led  to  believe  that  it  was  a  post  of 
honor.  Awful  stories  of  cowboys  who  had  gone 
to  sleep  on  guard  were  told  by  the  fire  at  night, 
and  the  danger  from  sudden  stampedes  was  played 
up  to  the  skies.  The  monotony  of  the  job  was 
admitted,  but  the  responsibility  was  great.  So 
[109] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

Bowles  accepted  the  position  gladly,  and  the 
round-up  went  on  unimpeded. 

Lolling  in  the  shade  of  his  horse  or  sitting  with 
his  back  to  the  dry  wind,  Bowles  watched  them 
"pluck  the  blossoms"  while  he  doctored  his  numer 
ous  wounds,  meanwhile  falling  into  lovelorn 
reveries  on  the  subject  of  Dixie  Lee.  It  was 
humiliating,  in  a  way,  to  be  reduced  to  the  ranks ; 
to  be  compelled  to  wait  on  her  pleasure,  and  court 
her  from  afar;  but  something  told  him  that  Dixie 
thought  of  him  even  though  she  passed  him  by; 
and  just  to  be  one  of  her  lovers,  to  be  allowed  to 
worship  with  the  rest — that  was  enough  to  bear 
him  up  and  give  him  courage  to  wait.  And 
either  in  the  end  she  would  speak  to  him  and  take 
him  back  into  her  life,  or  he  would  depart  in 
silence  to  hide  from  her  laughing  eyes.  The  game 
of  love  was  new  to  Bowles  and  he  knew  little  of 
its  stealth  and  wiles;  just  to  be  near  her  was  all  he 
knew,  and  the  future  must  solve  the  rest.  So, 
like  a  questing  knight,  nursing  his  hurts  after 
his  first  combat,  he  sat  out  on  the  boundless 
prairie  and  communed  with  his  own  sad  heart. 

Across  the  herd  from  him  a  battered  old-time 
cowboy  sat,  crooked-legged,  on  his  horse.  On 
the  day  before  a  bronk  had  thrown  him  by 
treachery  and  kicked  him  as  he  dragged — even 
turned  around  and  jumped  on  him  and  stamped 
[no] 


THE  FIRST  SMILE 

him  in  the  face.  A  great  bruise,  red  and  raw,  ran 
up  from  his  brows  to  his  bald-spot  where  the  iron 
shoe  had  struck;  but  still  the  old-timer  was  con 
tent. 

"A  cowboy  don't  need  no  haid  above  his  eye 
brows,  nohow,"  he  had  said.  ujest  think  if  he 
had  hit  me  on  the  jaw!"  Yes,  indeed,  but  what 
if  he  had  hit  him  in  the  temple  or  trampled  him 
to  death !  Or  suppose,  just  for  instance,  that  Mr. 
Bowles,  of  New  York,  had  been  on  the  bronk 
instead  of  Uncle  Joe,  the  veteran — would  he  have 
had  sense  enough  to  get  his  foot  out  of  the  stirrup  ? 
That  was  the  trouble  with  standing  day-herd — it 
gave  the  imagination  a  chance  to  work. 

Bowles  looked  out  over  the  plain  again  and 
noticed  every  little  thing — the  rattleweed,  planted 
so  regularly  on  the  sandy  flat;  the  dogholes,  each 
with  its  high-topped  mound  to  keep  out  the  rain  and 
floods;  the  black  line  of  mesquite  brush  against  the 
distant  hills;  the  band  of  yuccas  along  their  flanks; 
and  then  the  soft,  moulded  summits,  now  green, 
now  yellow,  now  creamy  white  as  shrubs  and 
bushes  and  bunch  grass  caught  the  light.  It  was 
very  beautiful,  but  lonely.  Yes,  it  lacked  color — 
a  vigorous  girlish  figure  in  the  foreground  to  give 
it  the  last  poetic  touch. 

The  only  men  who  can  stand  the  monotony  of 
day-herding  are  those  who  are  not  overburdened 

tin] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

with  brains,  and  so  have  the  ability  to  turn  off 
the  thinking-machine  entirely  until  they  need  it 
again.  Smoking  helps,  and  singing  long-drawn 
songs;  but  Bowles  turned  back  to  Wordsworth, 
the  poet  of  nature.  Stray  snatches  of  poems  and 
sonnets  rose  in  his  mind,  and  he  tried  to  piece  out 
the  rest;  then  he  gazed  at  the  quivering  mirage, 
the  plain,  the  straying  cattle,  and  wondered  how 
Wordsworth  would  see  it.  He  was  engaged  in 
this  peaceful  occupation  when,  on  the  second  day, 
he  noted  a  moving  figure,  far  away;  dreamily  he 
watched  it  as  it  emerged  from  the  barbed-wire 
lanes  of  the  nesters,  and  then,  like  a  flash,  the 
words  of  Brigham  came  back  to  him :  "I  knowed 
her  four  miles  away  by  section  lines."  It  was 
Dixie  Lee,  and  she  was  coming  his  way! 

There  were  three  other  worthless  cowboys  like 
himself  on  the  day-herd,  and  they  had  seen  her 
already.  Like  Brigham,  they  knew  her  by  the 
way  she  rode,  miles  and  miles  away.  Steadily 
she  pounded  along,  keeping  the  rangy  bay  at  an 
even  lope,  and  then  she  turned  toward  the  ranch. 
The  long  wire  fence  of  the  horse  pasture  had 
thrown  her  from  her  course,  but  now  she  was  on 
the  barren  prairie  and  could  skirt  the  north  fence 
home.  A  series  of  muttered  comments  marked 
this  sudden  turn  to  the  west,  and  the  tall,  cigarette- 
smoking  youth  who  had  been  rubbing  the  sleep  from 
[112] 


THE  FIRST  SMILE 

his  eyes  lopped  down  beneath  his  salt-bush  again. 
But  he  had  returned  to  Morpheus  too  soon,  for 
almost  immediately  after  he  had  laid  his  hat  over 
his  eyes  the  distant  rider  changed  her  course,  and 
the  boys  held  up  their  hands  for  silence.  Dixie 
Lee  was  going  to  make  them  a  visit,  after  all,  and 
they  would  let  her  catch  him  asleep. 

Swiftly  the  tireless  bay  came  loping  across  the 
flats,  winding  in  and  out  to  dodge  the  dog  towns, 
and  soon  the  queen  of  the  cowboys  was  up  to 
the  edge  of  the  herd. 

"Hello,  Uncle  Joe!"  she  hailed,  riding  over 
toward  the  old-timer.  "How's  your  head?" 

"All  right,  Miss  Dix,"  replied  the  puncher 
amiably.  "Cain't  hurt  a  cowboy  in  the  haid,  you 
know." 

"No,  but  you  can  spoil  his  looks,  Uncle,"  re 
torted  Dixie  May  playfully.  "You  want  to  re 
member  that — I  heard  a  lady  down  here  inquiring 
for  you  mighty  special.  What's  the  matter  with 
Slim  over  there?" 

A  whoop  went  up  at  this,  and  the  sleeper  sat 
up  guiltily. 

"Oh,  him?"  queried  Uncle  Joe,  speaking  loud 
so  that  all  could  hear.  "W'y,  kinder  overcome 
by  the  heat,  I  reckon.  He  gits  took  that  way 
every  once  in  a  while." 

"Ever  since  he  begin  settin'  up  with  that  nester 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

girl!"  put  in  the  other  day-herder,  with  a  guffaw; 
and  Dixie  May  began  to  chuckle  with  laughter  as 
she  rode  around  the  herd. 

"Well,  it's  too  bad  about  him,"  she  called  back. 
'Til  have  to  go  over  there  and  see  if  he's  likely 
to  die." 

It  took  her  but  a  moment  to  diagnose  the  sad 
case  of  Slim,  and  then  the  other  cowboy  had  his 
call  from  the  consulting  physician.  Bowles  was 
the  last  man  on  the  circuit,  but  he  did  not  step 
out  and  bow.  He  did  not  expect  a  visit — and, 
besides,  something  told  him  she  did  not  approve 
of  it.  So  he  stood  quietly  by  his  horse,  and  only 
his  eyes  followed  her  as  she  bore  down  on  him, 
her  head  turned  back  to  fling  some  gay  retort  and 
her  horse  falling  into  his  stride.  She  rode  to  the 
right  of  him,  and  as  she  faced  about  and  met  his 
glance  she  stared,  as  if  surprised. 

"Why,  hello  there,  cowboy!"  she  challenged 
bluffly;  and  then,  with  a  smile  on  her  face,  she 
went  galloping  on  toward  the  ranch. 

Nobody  heard  her  speak  but  Bowles;  and  he, 
poor,  unsophisticated  man,  was  more  puzzled  than 
enlightened  by  her  remarks.  Of  one  thing  he  was 
sure — she  had  lowered  her  voice  on  purpose,  and 
her  words  were  for  him  alone.  But  her  smile — 
was  it  one  of  derision,  or  a  token  of  forgiveness 
and  regard?  And  her  secret  greeting — was  it  an 


THE  FIRST  SMILE 

accident,  or  was  she  ashamed  of  his  friendship? 
Perhaps  she  had  weighty  reasons  for  keeping 
their  acquaintance  unknown.  Somehow,  that 
thought  appealed  to  him  above  the  rest.  Perhaps 
she  knew  more  than  he  did  of  the  dangers  which 
surrounded  him — from  Hardy  Atkins,  or  some 
other  jealous  suitor,  to  whom  a  single  smile  for 
him  might  be  the  signal  for  reprisal.  They  might 
— why,  there  were  a  thousand  things  they  might 
do  if  they  knew  what  was  in  his  heart!  Bowles 
ran  it  all  over  in  his  mind:  her  sudden  turning 
upon  him  as  they  approached  the  Chula  Vista 
hotel;  her  haughty  repudiation  of  him  when  he 
met  her  at  the  big  house;  and  now  this  secret 
greeting,  so  carelessly  given,  yet  so  fraught  with 
hidden  meaning. 

"Why,  hello  there,  cowboy!"  she  had  said. 
And  she  appeared  surprised,  as  if  she  had  not 
expected  to  see  him  in  the  guise  of  an  ordinary 
puncher.  She  had  smiled,  too ;  but— well,  a  little 
too  broadly.  Of  course,  out  in  the  West — but, 
even  then,  it  was  a  little  broad. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CONEY  ISLAND 

IT  is  wonderful  how  much  a  smile,  or  even  a 
grin,  will  do  for  a  disconsolate  lover.  Bowles 
woke  suddenly  to  the  beauties  of  nature  and  the 
wild  joy  of  living;  and  that  evening,  instead  of 
dropping  into  his  blankets  like  a  dead  man,  he 
tarried  by  the  fire.  A  chill  wind  swept  in  from 
the  frigid  north,  and  the  smoke  guttered  and 
flurried  from  the  burning  logs;  but  the  cowboys 
sat  about  in  their  shirt-sleeves  and  blinked  patient 
ly  when  they  caught  the  smoke.  Inside  the  bunk- 
house  the  noise  of  the  perpetual  pitch  game  told 
where  battles  were  being  lost  and  won,  a  secret 
understanding  that  every  game  was  worth  a 
quarter  on  pay-day  being  the  contributing  cause 
for  the  excitement,  since  Henry  Lee  allowed  no 
gambling  among  his  punchers.  But  outside  every 
body  was  either  broke  or  in  the  hole,  and  so  there 
was  nothing  but  peace  and  amity  and  long-winded 
arguments. 

The  talk  for  the  moment  was  centered  upon 
"ring-tail"  in  horses,  a  subject  upon  which  Brig- 
rn61 


CONEY  ISLAND 

ham  Clark  claimed  to  be  an  authority,  although 
Bowles  had  never  even  heard  of  it  before. 

"No,  sir,"  asserted  Brigham,  addressing  the 
company  at  large;  "you  show  me  a  ring-tailed 
hawse,  and  I'll  show  you  a  hawse  with  weak 
kidneys,  every  time.  Now,  I  don't  say  how  he 
gits  them  weak  kidneys,  y'understand;  he  may 
git  'em  from  bein'  rode  too  young,  the  way 
Uncle  Joe  claims ;  or  he  may  git  'em  from  drinkin' 
bad  water,  like  folks;  or  he  may  jest  be  born  that 
way.  But  that  ain't  the  point — when  you  take  a 
nice  young  hawse  and  turn  him  up  a  hill,  and  he 
quits  and  goes  to  ringin'  his  tail  around — that 
hawse  is  weak,  I  say,  or  he  wouldn't  quit.  A 
ring-tailed  hawse  is  a  weak  hawse,  and  you  might 
jest  as  well  give  'im  to  the  kids  to  play  with — he'll 
never  be  no  good  fer  a  cow-pony." 

Coming  as  this  did  at  the  end  of  a  long  and 
technical  argument,  it  was  allowed  to  pass  by  the 
company.  A  quiet  fell,  and  three  or  four  men  to 
leeward  got  up  to  avoid  the  smoke;  but  all  the 
time  Brigham  Clark  sat  on  the  box  he  had  cap 
tured,  his  big  black  hat  pushed  back  on  his  head, 
his  hand  held  out  to  the  fire,  and  his  shrewd  eyes 
twinkling  as  he  gazed  down  into  the  flames.  Then 
he  shook  with  silent  laughter,  and  they  knew  he 
was  off  on  another  one. 

"Heh,  heh,  heh!"  he  chuckled.  uSpeakin'  of 
[117] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

ring-tails  reminds  me  of  a  ring-tailed  monkey  I 
used  to  have  to  take  care  of  when  I  was  on  the 
road.  He  was  the  orneriest  little  brat  you  ever 
see  in  yore  life — a  little,  spider-legged  proposi 
tion,  with  a  long,  limber  tail,  and  big  eyes  that 
he'd  always  be  winkin'  and  a-blinkin'  while  he 
was  figurin'  out  some  new  kind  of  devilment — 
and  all  the  time  he'd  be  sneezin'  and  cuddlin'  and 
snugglin'  up  ag'inst  you  like  he  loved  you  more'n 
his  mammy.  The  boss's  wife  kept  the  little  snifter 
fer  company-like,  and  she'd  pet  and  coddle  and 
talk  foolish  to  'im  until  the  boss  would  nigh  have 
a  fit.  Jest  like  when  a  woman  keeps  a  lap-dog,  I 
reckon — kinder  makes  a  man  want  to  kill  'im,  to 
keep  her  from  muchin'  'im  all  the  time. 

"Well,  this  here  lady  was  shore  foolish  about 
that  monkey,  and  every  mornin'  when  we  were 
in  a  town  I  had  to  take  'im  out  fer  a  walk.  Least 
ways,  somebody  had  to  do  it;  and  rather  than 
not  see  the  town  at  all  I'd  take  him  along  under 
my  arm.  If  I'd  had  a  hand-organ  I'd  shore  made 
a  lot  of  money  that  trip — but  I  was  thinkin'  about 
the  time  I  took  the  ring  out  of  his  tail.  Every 
time  we'd  come  to  a  tree,  or  a  fire-escape,  or  some 
thing  like  that,  the  little  devil  would  begin  to  hook 
up  at  it  with  his  tail;  and  this  time  I'm  speakin' 
of  we  was  goin'  through  a  little  park,  and  I'm  a 
son-of-a-gun  if  he  didn't  git  away  on  me.  Jest 
[118] 


CONEY  ISLAND 

reached  out  with  his  tail  where  it  was  hangin' 
down  behind,  and  grabbed  a  limb,  and  slipped  the 
collar  on  me. 

"Yes,  sir !  And  then  he  begun  doin'  circus  stunts 
through  them  trees.  First  he'd  climb  up  one,  and 
then  another,  and  then  he  hooked  on  to  a  fire- 
escape,  and  I  chased  him  clean  over  a  house. 
Policeman  came  along  and  wanted  to  arrest  me, 
but  I  give  'im  a  talk  and  kept  travelin',  because 
I  knew  if  I  didn't  ketch  that  monkey  I  didn't  need 
to  go  back  to  the  tent.  Well,  I  chased  him  till  my 
tongue  hung  out,  but  about  the  time  I'd  reach 
out  to  ketch  'im  he'd  swing  off  with  his  tail  and 
git  into  the  next  tree;  so  I  went  over  to  a  fruit 
store  and  tried  to  ketch  'im  with  bananas.  Last 
chance  I  had,  and  I  was  gittin'  pretty  mad.  All 
the  kids  was  there  to  tease  me,  the  policeman  was 
tellin'  me  to  move  on — and  that  cussed  monkey 
kept  hangin'  down  by  his  tail  and  makin'  faces 
at  me,  until,  by  grab,  I  reached  down  and  took  up 
a  rock. 

"  'Now,  hyer,'  I  says,  holdin'  up  the  banana, 
'you'd  better  come  down  before  I  git  hot  and  soak 
you  with  this,'  and  I  showed  him  the  size  of  that 
pavin'  stone. 

*  'Etchee-etchee-etchee  P  he  says,  swingin'  up 
for  a  limb;  and  then  I  let  'im  have  it.  They 
wasn't  any  ring  in  his  tail  when  he  come  down, 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

believe  me ;  and  when  I  showed  the  remains  to  the 
missus  she  like  to  tore  my  hair  out.  Boss  he  fired 
me — mad  as  the  devil — then  when  she  wasn't 
lookin'  he  slipped  me  a  twenty,  and  told  me  to 
go  back  to  Coney.  There  was  a  happy  man, 
fellers,  but  he  had  to  let  on  different — married, 
you  know.  So  I  took  the  twenty  and  went  back  to 
old  Coney,  where  they  shoot  the  chutes  and  loop 
the  loops,  and  any  man  that's  got  a  dime  is  as  rich 
as  John  G.  Rockefeller.  Big  doin's  back  there, 
fellers — you  don't  know  what  you're  missin'." 

An  abashed  silence  followed  this  remark,  cal 
culated  as  it  was  to  reduce  his  hearers  to  a  proper 
state  of  humility;  and  then,  to  add  to  its  effective 
ness,  the  Odysseus  of  the  cow  camps  turned  to 
Bowles. 

"Ain't  that  so,  stranger?"  he  said;  and  Bowles 
thought  he  detected  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  he  replied.  "There's  no  place 
in  the  world  like  Coney  Island.  Changing  very 
rapidly,  too.  Have  you  been  there  lately?  That 
Dreamland  is  wonderful,  isn't  it?  And  Luna 
Park " 

"Hah!"  exclaimed  Brigham,  slapping  his  leg. 
"That's  the  place!  Loony  Park!  Ain't  that  the 
craziest  place  you  ever  see?  Everything  upside- 
down,  topsy-turvy — guess  I  never  told  you  boys 
about  that.  Didn't  dare  to,  by  grab— not  till  this 
gentleman  come  along  to  back  me  up!" 
[120] 


CONEY  ISLAND 

He  glanced  at  Bowles  significantly  and  waited 
for  the  questions. 

"What  does  she  look  like,  Brig?"  inquired  Bar 
Seven,  the  stray  man.  "Pretty  fancy,  eh?" 

"Fancy!"  repeated  Brigham,  with  royal  in 
solence.  "Well,  believe  me,  goin'  through  this 
Loony  Park  would  make  Tucson  look  like  a  cow 
camp !  She's  shore  elegant — silver  and  gold,  and 
big  barroom  looking-glasses  everywhere — only 
everything  is  upside-down.  You  go  into  the  house 
through  the  chimney,  walk  around  on  the  ceilin' 
and  there's  all  the  tables  and  chairs  stuck  up  on 
the  top.  Big  chandeliers  standin'  straight  up  from 
the  floor,  and  all  the  pictures  hangin'  wrong  side 
to  on  the  walls.  Stairs  is  all  built  backwards,  and 
when  you're  half  way  up,  if  you  look  like  a  Rube, 
they'll  straighten 'em  out  like  a  flat  board  and  shoot 
you  into  the  attic.  Talk  about  crazy — w'y,  they's 
been  a  feller  walked  through  this  Loony  Park  and 
never  knowed  straight  up  afterwards.  It's  shore 
wonderful,  ain't  it,  pardner?" 

"Yes,  indeed!"  answered  Bowles  suavely;  and, 
seeing  that  he  could  be  relied  upon,  Brigham  Clark 
cut  loose  with  another  one. 

"Ain't  that  so,  mister?"  he  inquired  at  the  end; 
and  Bowles,  who  saw  a  chance  for  revenge,  as 
sured  the  gawking  cowboys  that  it  was.  These 
were  the  boys  who  had  been  gloating  over  him 
for  a  week  and  more,  but  now  it  was  his  turn. 

[121] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  replied,  with  a  blase,  worldly- 
wise     air;     "quite     a     common    occurrence,     I'm 


sure." 


At  this  the  ready  Brigham  took  fresh  courage, 
and  his  little  eyes  twinkled  with  mischief. 

"Friend,"  he  said,  "if  it's  none  of  my  business, 
of  course  you'll  let  me  know,  but  you've  been 
around  a  little,  haven't  you?  Seen  the  world, 
mebbe?  Well  now,  what's  the  wonderfulest 
thing  you  ever  see?" 

A  flush  of  pleasure  mantled  Bowies'  sunburned 
face,  for  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  ad 
dressed  as  man  to  man  since  he  struck  the  Bat 
Wing;  but  he  did  not  lose  the  point — Brigham  had 
a  bigger  story  to  bring  out  and  he  was  waiting  for 
a  lead. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  have  seen  a  good  many 
wonderful  exhibitions,  but  the  one  that  I  think 
of  at  this  moment  as  the  most  striking  was  Selim, 
the  diving  horse.  You  remember  him,  I  guess — 
out  at  Coney  Island.  He  was  a  beautiful  horse, 
wasn't  he?  Snowy  white,  with  a  long,  flowing 
mane,  and  intelligent  as  a  human.  He  mounted 
to  a  platform  forty-five  feet  high  and  leaped  off 
into  a  pool  of  water.  That  was  the  most  won 
derful  thing  I  ever  saw,  because  he  did  it  all  by 
himself— climbed  up  to  the  platform,  stepped  out 
to  the  diving-place,  and  jumped  off  when  his 
[122] 


CONEY  ISLAND 

master  said  the  word.  Yes,  that  was  certainly 
wonderful." 

"You  bet!"  assented  Brig,  regarding  him  with 
admiring  eyes;  but  the  others  were  not  so  easily 
satisfied.  That  was  one  thing  they  claimed  to  be 
up  on — horses — and  they  looked  the  solemn 
stranger  over  dubiously. 

"How  high  did  you  say  that  platform  was?" 
inquired  Uncle  Joe  cautiously.  "Forty-five — well, 
that  was  shore  high.  I  cain't  hardly  git  my  hawse 
to  cross  the  crick." 

"How  deep  was  that  pool?"  spoke  up  Bar 
Seven,  the  stray  man.  "Ten  foot?  Huh!  Say, 
boys,  this  reminds  me  of  that  divin'  story  of 
Brig's!" 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  that  divin'  story 
of  mine?"  demanded  Brigham  orgulously.  "You're 
behind  the  times,  Bar  Seven.  While  you  was  on 
yore  way  this  gentleman  come  into  camp,  and  he's 
seen  that  done  himself.  What  do  you  know  about 
it,  anyhow — spent  all  yore  life  punchin'  cows  and 
eatin'  sand — what  do  you  know  about  divin',  any 
how?" 

"Well,  they's  one  thing  I  do  know,"  retorted 
Bar  Seven,  "and  that's  hawses.  I  been  with 
hawses  all  my  life,  and  you  cain't  tell  me  about  no 
hawse  divin' — stands  to  reason  he'd  hit  the  bottom 
and  break  his  neck,  anyway!" 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Perhaps  I  would  better  explain,"  broke  in 
Bowles  politely.  "When  the  horse  leaves  the 
platform  he  slides  down  an  inclined  chute,  below 
which  is  hung  a  heavily  padded  board.  As  the 
horse  slips  off  he  naturally  kicks  and  struggles, 
and  his  feet,  flying  out  behind,  strike  the  padded 
board  so  that,  while  he  leaps  off  headforemost, 
he  rights  himself  in  the  air  and  falls  into  the  pool 
feet  first.  Of  course,  forty-five  feet  is  quite  a 
distance,  but  he  probably  never  goes  to  the  bottom 
at  all." 

"Well,  that's  all  right,"  admitted  Bar  Seven.  "I 
don't  know  about  that — but  tell  me  this,  stranger : 
How  does  the  man  git  that  hawse  to  climb  up 
there  and  take  the  jump?  Tell  me  that,  and  I'll 
believe  anything!" 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  Bowles.  "At  the  time 
of  which  I  speak,  a  young  girl  rode  on  his  back 
when  he  made  the  plunge— just  to  make  it  more 
exciting,  you  know — but  I  watched  the  man  quite 
closely,  and  really  it  was  very  interesting.  First 
the  girl  went  up  the  long  incline,  which  had  a  rail 
ing  and  was  provided  with  cleats,  of  course.  Then 
the  trainer  brought  Selim  out  and  gave  him  a 
handful  of  sugar  from  his  pocket,  rubbing  his 
head  and  talking  to  him  while  he  was  begging 
for  more,  until  he  had  him  up  to  the  chute. 
There  he  stripped  the  halter  off  and  spoke  to  him, 
[124] 


CONEY  ISLAND 

and  the  horse  started  up  by  himself,  he  was  so 
eager  for  the  reward.  At  the  top  the  girl  mounted 
him  and  turned  him  down  the  diving-chute;  and, 
don't  you  know,  the  first  thing  he  did  when  he 
got  to  land  was  to  trot  back  and  get  his  sugar!" 

"Oh,  sugar!"  cried  Bar  Seven,  in  disgust;  but 
somehow  the  circumstantiality  of  the  narrative 
seemed  to  carry  conviction  with  the  others,  and 
he  found  himself  alone. 

"What  breed  of  hawse  was  that?"  inquired 
Uncle  Joe,  after  a  pause. 

"A  pure-blooded  Arabian,"  answered  Bowles; 
"supposed  to  be  the  most  intelligent  horses  in  the 
world.  The  Arabians,  you  know,  keep  their 
horses  about  their  tents  and  raise  them  as  if  they 
were  children,  teaching  them  to  understand  the 
human  voice  and  to  answer  like  a  dog." 

"W'y,  sure!"  broke  in  Brigham,  artfully  taking 
the  lead  again.  "Don't  you  fellers  remember 
that  story  in  the  school  book  about  Ali  Ben  Has 
san,  or  whatever  his  name  was,  that  was  wounded 
in  a  battle  and  his  hawse  picked  him  up  by  his 
belt  and  packed  him  back  to  his  tent?  I  tell  you, 
them  A-rabs  are  a  pretty  smooth  bunch  of 
hombres.  They  not  only  savvy  hawses  from  the 
ground  up  but  they're  the  finest  jugglers  and 
strong-armed  men  that  the  world  has  ever  seen. 
I  remember  back  at  Coney  they  was  three 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

brothers  that  did  sech  tricks  you  couldn't  hardly 
believe  it. 

"They  was  called  the  Hassan  brothers — all 
A-rabs  is  either  named  Hassan  or  A-li — and  the 
oldest  one  was  a  balancer.  That  feller  could 
balance  a  peacock  feather  on  his  nose — throw  a 
flip-flap  clean  over  it,  and  come  up  with  it  still 
on  his  nose — but  that  was  jest  fer  a  starter.  His 
big  stunt  was  balancin'  clay  pipes.  He'd  take  a 
hundred  and  forty-four  long-handled  pipes, 
balance  'em  one  on  top  of  the  other,  and  then 
skip  up  to  the  top  and  set  there  while  he  took  a 
smoke." 

"What!  One  on  top  of  the  other?"  demanded 
Bar  Seven  incredulously. 

"Aw,  no,  you  bone  head!"  replied  Brigham 
impatiently.  "What  d'ye  think — would  he  pile 
'em  up  a  hundred  foot  high?  He  made  'em  into 
a  kind  of  pyramid-like — but  he  was  nothin'  to  his 
younger  brother.  That  feller  was  a  rope-sharp. 
You  punchers  think  you  can  twirl  the  rope  some, 
but  you're  back  in  the  calf  corral  alongside  of  him. 
He  could  throw  a  loop  out  on  the  floor,  and  send 
it  quilin'  around  like  a  snake,  hoppin'  over  chairs 
and  tables  like  a  trained  dog,  and  then  have  it 
come  back  and  hog-tie  'im  at  one  lick,  so  that  an 
expert  couldn't  unfasten  the  knots  in  half  an  hour. 
But  that  was  jest  good  rope  work  with  him ;  his  big 
[126] 


CONEY  ISLAND 

play  come  at  the  end  when  he  tied  a  twenty- 
pound  weight  at  the  end  of  it  and  began  to  swing 
it  round.  By  Joe,  that  was  great!  And  then, 
right  at  the  end,  when  he  pulled  his  big  stuff,  he 
heaved  that  weight  forty  foot  into  the  air,  clum 
up  the  rope  and  set  down  on  top  of  it  smokin' 
his  cigar!  Now,  by  grab,  can  you  beat  that?" 

"Kin  we  beat  it?"  echoed  Bar  Seven  and  the 
bunch.  "Kin  we  believe  it — that's  the  point!" 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  it?"  demanded 
Brigham  irritably.  "Seems  like  every  time  I  tell 
you  cotton-pickers  anythin'  you  up  an'  call  me 
a  liar.  What's  the  matter,  anyway?" 

"What's  the  matter?"  yelled  Bar  Seven,  raising 
his  voice  above  the  rest.  uW'y,  you  ignorant 
devil,  how  could  the  feller  set  on  the  weight  when 
it  was  only  throwed  up  in  the  air?" 

A  chorus  of  other  demands  followed,  but 
Brigham  only  sat  on  his  box,  smiling  easily. 

"Say,  what  do  you  take  me  for?"  he  inquired, 
gazing  about  him  pityingly.  "If  I  knowed  how 
that  A-rab  did  that  rope-work,  d'ye  think  I'd  be 
punchin'  cows?  Not  fer  me — I'd  be  drawin'  a 
thousand  dollars  a  week  back  at  Coney.  Of 
co'se  I  can't  say  how  it  was  done — no  more  than 
you  can — but  that's  what  makes  the  show!  If 
the  people  knowed,  they  wouldn't  come  no  more ! 
Ain't  that  so,  pardner?" 

[127] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Yes,  indeed!"  responded  Bowles. 

"W'y  sure!"  went  on  Brigham.  "Anybody 
that  knows  anythin'  about  the  show  business 
knows  that.  No  matter  how  good  a  stunt  is,  it's 
got  to  be  mysterious  or  the  people  won't  pay  to 
see  it.  Either  that,  or  it's  got  to  be  feats  of 
strength  and  darin'.  Now  this  youngest  Hassan 
brother  was  a  strong-armed  man.  He'd  wrap 
a  piece  of  chain  around  his  arm,  tighten  up  his 
muscle  and  pop!  it'd  break  right  square  in  two. 
Same  thing  with  his  chest — he'd  wrap  a  loggin' 
chain  around  his  breast,  suck  in  his  breast,  and 
snap  it  like  a  thread.  You've  seen  fellers  like 
that,  haven't  you?" 

"Sure!"  said  Bowles. 

"Yes — all  right!"  continued  Brigham  apolo 
getically.  "Seems  like  the  simplest  thing  I  tell 
these  fellers  some  rabbit-twister  from  Texas  up 
and  contradicts  me.  Well,  this  youngest  brother 
had  a  pretty  good  stunt  to  end  up  with — nothin' 
flashy,  of  co'se,  but  pretty  good  fer  a  kid.  He 
was  powerful  strong  in  the  right  arm  and  he'd 
hold  it  out  like  this"— Brigham  held  out  his 
brawny  arm— "and  then  he'd  muscle  up,  real 
slow-like,  and  then,  by  grab,  he'd  raise  himself 
right  up,  and  come  down  over,  and  set  right  down 
on  that  thumb!" 

He  elevated  his  thumb  as  he  spoke,  and  the 
[128] 


CONEY  ISLAND 

cowboys  gazed  at  it  as  if  hypnotized.  Then  Bar 
Seven  rose  up  slowly  and,  walking  over  to  the 
defenseless  Brigham,  mashed  his  hat  down  over 
his  eyes  at  a  single  blow. 

"Brig,"  he  said,  his  voice  trembling  with  con 
viction,  "you're  a  dad-burned  liar!" 


[129] 


CHAPTER  XII 

PROMOTED 

THERE  was  quite  a  little  excitement  in  the 
bunk-house  that  night,  and  when  it  was  at 
its  height  Brigham  Clark  came  tottering  out  with 
his  bed. 

"Say,  where's  that  friend  of  mine — that  Coney 
Island  feller?"  he  inquired,  addressing  the  re 
cumbent  forms  of  men  as  he  scouted  along  the 
wagon-shed.  "I'm  skeered  to  sleep  in  the  same 
house  with  them  cotton-pickers  and  old  Bar 
Seven — they  might  rise  up  in  the  night  and  throw 
me  into  the  hawse-trough.  Huh?  Oh,  that's 
him  over  there,  hey?  Well,  so  long,  fellers — 
kinder  cold  out  hyer,  ain't  it?  But  I  cain't  sleep 
in  that  bunk-house  no  more — them  fellers,  they 
doubt  my  veracity!" 

He  was  still  chuckling  with  subdued  laughter 
as  he  dropped  his  bed  down  in  a  far  corner  beside 
Bowles;  but  nothing  was  said  until  he  had  spread 
his  "tarp"  and  blankets  and  crept  in  out  of  the 
cold.  Then  he  laughed  again,  quivering  until 
the  earth  seemed  to  shake  with  his  contagious 
merriment. 


PROMOTED 

"Say,  pardner,"  he  said,  "you're  all  right.  We 
capped  'em  in  on  that  proper,  and  no  mistake. 
Did  you  see  old  Bar  Seven's  jaw  drop  when  he 
saw  how  he  was  bit?  I'll  have  that  on  him  for 
many  a  long  day  now,  and  it'll  shore  cost  him 
the  drinks  when  we  git  to  town  next  month. 
Gittin'  too  lively  for  me  over  in  the  bunk-house, 
so  I  thought  I'd  come  out  here  with  you." 

"Sure !"  responded  Bowles,  who  had  secretly 
been  lonely  for  company.  "It's  rather  cold  out 
here,  but  the  air  is  better." 

"Yes — and  the  company,"  added  Brigham 
meaningly.  "Ain't  these  Texicans  the  ignorantest 
bunch?  W'y,  them  fellers  don't  know  nothin'  till 
they  see  you  laugh !  I  could've  got  away  with  that 
strong-arm  business  if  I  could've  kept  my  face 
straight,  but  old  Bar  Seven  was  too  many  fer  me — 
I  jest  had  to  snicker  or  I'd  bust!  Heh,  heh,  heh, 
heh,  heh!" 

"There  was  one  thing  which  kind  of  puzzled 
me,  though,"  observed  Bowles.  "Would  you 
mind  telling  me  where  you  got  that  absurd  idea 
of  the  three  Hassan  brothers?" 

"W'y,  sure  not,"  giggled  Brigham,  creeping 
closer  and  lowering  his  voice.  "Don't  tell  any 
body,  but  I  got  it  off  a  drummer  in  the  smokin'- 
car  when  I  was  comin'  back  from  the  Fair  in 
Phoenix.  The  way  he  told  it,  there  was  an 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

Englishman  and  a  Frenchman  and  an  Irishman 
talkin'  together,  each  one  braggin'  about  his  own 
country;  and  the  Englishman  began  it  by  tellin' 
about  his  younger  brother,  who  wasn't  nothin' 
hardly  in  England  but  could  do  that  first  stunt  with 
the  clay  pipes.  Then  the  Frenchman  told  about 
his  brother,  who  wasn't  nothin'  for  a  balancer 
but  was  pretty  good  at  rope-work;  and  the  Irish 
man,  in  orde'r  to  trump  'em  right,  he  tells  about 
his  youngest  brother  that  was  strong  in  the  arms. 
Say,  that  shore  knocked  the  persimmon,  didn't 
it?  Them  fellers  was  like  the  man  that  come 
out  of  Loony  Park — they  didn't  know  straight-up ! 
Their  eyes  was  stickin'  out  so  you  could  rope  'em 
with  a  grape-vine,  but  they  didn't  dare  to  peep. 
Been  called  down  too  often.  But  say,  pardner, 
on  the  dead,  how  about  that  divin'  hawse?" 

"Why — er — what  do  you  mean?"  asked  Bowles. 

"Well,  did  he  shore  enough  do  that,  or  was  you 
jest  stringin'  'em?" 

"Why,  yes,  certainly  he  did!  Haven't  you 
ever  heard  about  Selim,  the  diving  horse?  How 
long  ago  was  it  that  you  were  at  Coney  Island?" 

"Who — me?"  inquired  Brigham.  "Never  was 
there,"  he  replied  with  engaging  frankness; 
"never  been  outside  the  Territory.  Say,  you 
didn't  think  I'd  shore  been  there,  did  ye?"  he 
questioned  eagerly. 

[132] 


PROMOTED 

"I  certainly  did,"  replied  Bowles.  "Of  course, 
I  knew  that  you  were  drawing  the  long  bow  this 
evening — but  how  did  you  get  all  this  information 
if  you've  never  been  there?" 

"Heh,  heh,  heh!"  chuckled  Brigham,  rolling 
over  on  his  bed.  "Say,  this  is  pretty  good,  by 
grab!  Feller  comes  clear  out  hyer  from  New 
York,  and  I  take  him  in,  too!  W'y,  pardner,  I 
was  with  a  carnival  company  down  at  the  Terri 
torial  Fair  last  fall,  and  that  was  the  near 
est  I  ever  got  to  Coney;  but  they  was  a  feller 
there — the  ballyhoo  man  for  Go-Go,  the  wild 
boy — and  he  was  always  tellin'  me  about  Coney, 
until  I  knowed  it  like  a  book.  Yes,  sir,  I  jest 
camped  right  down  and  listened  to  that  spieler; 
and  he  was  shore  glad  to  talk.  Talkin'  was  his 
business,  and  he'd  been  at  it  so  long  he'd  got  the 
habit — couldn't  help  it — all  he  needed  was  some 
feller  to  listen  to  'im.  But  all  he'd  talk  about  was 
Coney  Island.  Been  there  for  years  and  didn't 
know  nothin'  else — and  he  shore  filled  me  up 
right.  Learned  me  all  his  spiels  and  everythin', 
and  when  I  come  back  from  winterin'  in  that 
Phoenix  country  I  tole  'em  I  was  back  from  New 
York.  New  York  and  the  Great  White  Way— 
and  Coney. 

"But  you  shore  strengthened  my  hand  im 
mensely,  pardner,  the  way  you  he'ped  out  to- 
[133] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

night.  Now,  we  want  to  stand  pat  on  this — don't 
tip  me  off  to  'em — and  pretty  soon  I'll  have  'em 
all  spraddled  out  ag'in.  Hardy  Atkins  and  that 
bunch,  they  make  too  much  noise — they  won't  let 
me  talk  at  all — but  you  watch  me  go  after  Bar 
Seven  and  these  stray  men.  I'll  tell  ye — you  put 
me  wise  to  a  whole  lot  more  stuff,  and  I'll  frame 
up  another  come-on.  How's  that  now?" 

"All  right,"  agreed  Bowles,  yawning  sleepily. 
"Good-night!" 

He  dropped  back  into  his  blankets  and  covered 
up  his  head;  but  Brigham  failed  to  take  the  hint. 

"Got  any  more  divin'  stories?"  he  asked,  with 
gentle  insistence.  "They  bite  on  them  fine.  Or 
a  hawse  story!  A  cowboy  thinks  he  knows  all 
about  hawses.  Go  ahead  and  give  me  one  now, 
so  I  can  spring  it  on  'em  in  the  mornin' — I  got 
to  have  somethin'  to  come  back  at  'em  with. 
They're  always  throwin'  it  into  me  about  being  a 
Mormon — I  jest  wanter  show  'em  that  I've  got 
the  goods.  Go  ahead  now — tell  me  somethin'!" 

"All  right,"  said  Bowles,  coming  out  from 
under  his  blankets;  "but,  really,  I'm  awfully 
sleepy!" 

"Yeah;  you'll  git  over  that  after  you've  been 
punchin'  cows  a  while,"  observed  Brigham  sagely. 
"I'm  on  the  wrangle  again,  but  it  don't  worry  me 
none.  Cowboy's  got  no  right  to  sleep,  nohow. 

[134] 


PROMOTED 

Let  'im  trade  his  bed  for  a  lantern — that's  what 
they  all  say — but  don't  fergit  that  divin'  story, 
pardner.  Didn't  you  never  see  no  more  divin' 
stunts — in  New  York  or  somewhere?" 

"Why,  yes,"  answered  Bowles,  brightening  up ; 
"that  reminds  me — there's  the  Hippodrome!" 

"Aha!"  breathed  Brigham.     "What's  it  like?" 

"Why,  the  Hippodrome,"  continued  Bowles, 
"is  an  immense  playhouse  right  in  the  heart  of  New 
York  that's  given  over  entirely  to  spectacles.  It 
has  a  stage  large  enough  to  accommodate  a 
thousand  people,  and  a  great  lake  out  in  front 
that  is  big  enough  to  float  a  fleet  of  boats;  and 
every  year  they  put  on  some  new  spectacle.  One 
year  it  will  be  the  battle  of  Manila  Bay,  for  in 
stance,  with  ships  and  men  and  cannons,  and  a  great 
shipwreck  scene  right  there  in  the  lake,  with  peo 
ple  falling  overboard  and  getting  drowned — and 
the  peculiar  thing  is  that  when  a  boatload  of 
people  fall  into  that  lake  they  never  come  up 
again.  It's  just  the  same  as  if  they  were  drowned." 

"Aw,  say,"  broke  in  Brigham,  "you're  givin' 
me  a  fill,  ain't  you?" 

"No,"  protested  Bowles  warmly;  "I'm  telling 
you  the  truth.  Why,  I  saw  the  most  glorious 
spectacle  there  one  night.  It  represented  the 
tempting  of  some  young  prince  by  Cleopatra,  the 
beautiful  Egyptian  queen.  There  were  six  hun- 

[135] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

dred  women  in  the  play,  and  as  they  marched 
and  countermarched  across  the  stage  the  lights 
would  throw  soft  colors  about  them,  and  then  as 
they  danced  the  colors  would  change,  until  the 
whole  place  looked  like  fairyland.  Then  they 
would  swing  up  into  the  air  on  invisible  wires  and 
hover  about  like  butterflies — there  would  be  a 
flash  and  all  would  have  wings — and  then  they 
would  disappear  again  and  come  out  dressed  in 
armor  like  Amazons.  And  in  the  last  act,  when 
the  prince  had  sent  them  away,  they  marched 
down  the  broad  stone  steps  that  lead  into  the  lake, 
four  abreast,  and  without  taking  a  deep  breath,  or 
showing  any  concern  whatever,  they  just  walked 
right  into  that  deep  water  and  disappeared. 
Never  came  up  again.  Gone,  the  whole  six  hun 
dred  of  them!" 

"Gone!"  echoed  Brigham  in  amazement. 
"Where  to  ?  Where'd  they  go  to  ?" 

"Under  the  water—that's  all  I  know." 

"Gee,  what  a  lie!"  exclaimed  Brigham,  rising 
up  in  bed.  "By  jicks,  pardner,  I  shore  have  to 
take  off  my  hat  to  you — you  got  a  wonderful 
imagination!" 

"No,  indeed!"  protested  Bowles.  "It's  every 
word  of  it  true.  This  Hippodrome  was  designed 
by  the  same  man  who  built  Luna  Park,  and  in 
vented  the  loop  the  loop,  and  shoot  the  chutes, 
[136] 


PROMOTED 

and  all  those  other  wonderful  things.  I  was  read 
ing  an  article  about  that  Hippodrome  lake  and  it 
seems  he  built  some  kind  of  a  great  metal  hood 
down  under  the  water  and  filled  it  with  com 
pressed  air  of  just  the  right  pressure  to  displace 
the  water.  All  the  details  are  held  secret,  and 
the  very  people  who  use  it  are  kept  in  ignorance, 
but  as  near  as  can  be  found  out  the  performers 
dive  right  down  under  that  hood  and  from  there 
they  are  taken  off  through  underground  passages 
and  carried  back  to  their  dressing-rooms.  Several 
people  were  drowned  while  they  were  experiment 
ing  with  it,  but  now  it's  perfectly  safe;  I  don't 
suppose  those  women  mind  it  at  all." 

"No !"  cried  Brigham,  still  struggling  with  his 
emotions.  "Is  it  as  easy  as  that?  But  say,"  he 
whispered,  as  the  magnitude  of  the  story  came 
over  him,  "jest  wait  till  I  get  this  off  on  the  cow 
boys — I'll  have  me  a  reputation  like  old  Tom 
Pepper,  or  Windy  Bill  up  on  the  J.F. !  You  don't 
want  to  pull  it  yoreself,  do  you?  Well,  jest  give 
me  the  details,  then,  and  I'll  depend  on  you  to 
make  my  hand  good  when  they  come  back  for 
the  explanation.  But,  by  grab,  if  it's  anythin' 
like  what  you  say,  I'm  shore  goin'  to  save  my 
money  and  drag  it  fer  old  New  York!" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  murmured  Bowles,  cuddling 
down  into  his  bed;  "I'm  sure  you'd  enjoy  it." 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

He  fell  to  breathing  deeply  immediately,  feign 
ing  a  dreamless  slumber,  and  when  Brigham 
asked  his  next  question  Bowles  was  lost  to  the 
world.  The  cowboy's  night  was  all  too  short 
for  him,  ending  as  it  did  at  four-thirty  in  the 
morning,  and  not  even  a  consideration  for  Brig- 
ham's  future  career  could  fight  off  the  demands 
of  sleep.  Yet  hardly  had  he  closed  his  eyes — or 
so  it  seemed — when  Gloomy  Gus  flashed  his  lan 
tern  in  his  face  and  then  turned  to  the  ambitious 
Brigham. 

"Git  up,  Brig!"  he  rasped.  "It's  almost  day! 
Wranglers!" 

"Oh,  my  Lord!"  moaned  Brigham,  turning  to 
hide  his  face,  but  the  round-up  cook  was  inex 
orable  and  at  last  he  had  his  way.  Then  as  the 
wranglers  clumped  away  to  saddle  their  night- 
horses  the  dishpan  clanged  out  its  brazen  sum 
mons  and  one  by  one  the  cowboys  stirred  and 
rose.  Last  of  all  rose  Bat  Wing  Bowles,  for  his 
head  was  heavy  with  sleep;  but  a  pint  of  the 
cook's  hot  coffee  brought  him  back  to  life  again, 
and  he  was  ready  for  another  day. 

Shrill  yells  rose  from  the  far  corner  of  the 
horse  pasture;  there  was  a  rumble  of  feet,  a  din 
of  hoofbeats  growing  nearer,  and  then  with  a 
noise  like  thunder  the  remuda  poured  into  the 
corral.  A  scamper  of  ponies  and  the  high-pitched 
[138] 


PROMOTED 

curses  of  the  riders  told  where  the  outlaws  were 
being  turned  back  from  a  break;  and  then  the 
bars  went  up  and  the  wranglers  ran  shivering 
to  the  fire. 

"Pore  old  Brig!"  observed  Bar  Seven  with  ex 
aggerated  concern.  "He  was  up  all  night!" 

"What's  the  matter?"  inquired  another.  "Feet 
hurt  'im?" 

"No,"  said  Bar  Seven  sadly;  "it  was  his  haid!" 

Brigham  looked  up  from  his  cup  of  coffee  and 
said  nothing.  Then,  seeing  many  furtive  eyes 
upon  him,  he  laughed  shortly,  and  filled  his  cup 
again. 

"Yore  eyes  look  kinder  bad,  Seven,"  he  said. 
"Must've  kinder  strained  'em  last  night." 

"Nope,"  answered  Bar  Seven,  upon  whom  the 
allusion  was  not  lost;  and  with  this  delicate  pas 
sage  at  arms  the  subject  of  big  stories  was 
dropped.  Henry  Lee  came  down,  there  was  a 
call  for  horses,  and  in  the  turmoil  of  roping  and 
mounting  the  matter  was  forgotten.  Brigham 
had  scored  a  victory  and  he  was  satisfied,  while 
the  stray  men  were  biding  their  time.  So  the 
marvels  of  the  Hippodrome  were  held  in  re 
serve,  and  the  round-up  supplied  the  excitement. 

As  the  riding  of  bronks  progressed,  the  acci 
dents  that  go  with  such  work  increased.  Almost 
every  morning  saw  its  loose  horse  racing  across 
[139] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

the  flats,  and  the  number  of  receptive  candidates 
for  the  job  of  day-herding  was  swelled  by  the 
battle-scarred  victims.  Then  fate  stepped  in,  the 
scene  was  changed,  and  Bowles  found  himself  a 
man  again. 

"Bowles,"  said  Henry  Lee,  as  he  lingered  by 
the  fire,  ucan  you  drive  a  team?" 

Visions  of  a  flunky's  job  driving  the  bed-wagon 
rose  instantly  in  his  mind;  but  Bowles  had  been 
trained  to  truth-telling  and  he  admitted  that  he 
could. 

"Ever  drive  a  wild  team?"  continued  Lee,  with 
a  touch  of  severity. 

"Well — no,"  answered  Bowles.  "IVe  driven 
spirited  horses,  such  as  we  have  in  the  East, 
but " 

"Think  you  could  drive  the  grays  to  Chula 
Vista  and  back?" 

"Oh,  the  grays!"  cried  Bowles,  a  sudden  smile 
wreathing  his  countenance  as  he  thought  of  that 
spirited  pair.  "Why,  yes;  I'm  sure  I  could!" 

"Oh,"  commented  Henry  Lee,  as  if  he  had  his 
doubts;  but  after  a  quick  glance  at  the  self-suffi 
cient  youth  he  seemed  to  make  up  his  mind. 
"Well,"  he  said,  "I'll  get  Hardy  to  hook  'em 
up — Mrs.  Lee  wants  you  to  take  her  to  town." 

"Certainly,"   responded   Bowles,   turning   sud 
denly  sober.    "I'll  be  very  careful  indeed." 
[140] 


PROMOTED 

"Yes,"  said  the  cattleman;  "and  if  you  can't 
drive,  I  want  you  to  say  so  now." 

"I've  driven  in  the  horse  shows,  Mr.  Lee,"  an 
swered  Bowles.  "You  can  judge  for  yourself." 

"Oh,  you  have,  have  you?"  And  the  keen  gray 
eyes  of  Henry  Lee  seemed  to  add:  "Then  what 
are  you  doing  out  here?"  But  all  he  said  was: 
"Very  well." 

Half  an  hour  later,  with  his  gloved  hands  well 
out  to  the  front,  and  the  whip  in  his  right  for 
emergencies,  Bowles  went  racing  southward  be 
hind  the  grays;  while  Mrs.  Lee,  her  face  muffled 
against  the  wind,  was  wondering  at  his  skill.  As 
a  cowboy,  Mr.  Bowles  had  been  a  laughing 
stock,  but  now  he  displayed  all  the  courage  and 
control  of  a  Western  stage-driver,  with  some  of 
the  style  of  a  coachman  thrown  in. 

"How  well  you  drive,  Mr.  Bowles!"  she  ven 
tured,  after  the  grays  had  had  their  first  dash. 
"I  was  afraid  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  go  to  town 
until  after  the  round-up — Mr.  Atkins  is  so  busy, 
you  know." 

Bowles  bowed  and  smiled  grimly.  It  had 
been  Hardy  Atkins'  boast  that  he  alone  was  capa 
ble  of  handling  the  grays,  and  as  he  was  har 
nessing  them  up  that  gentleman  had  seen  fit  to 
criticize  the  arrangements,  only  to  be  rebuked  by 
Henry  Lee. 

[141] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"You  know  Mr.  Lee  depends  so  much  on 
Hardy,"  continued  Mrs.  Lee,  "and  he  needs  him 
so  on  the  circle  that  I  disliked  very  much  to  ask 
for  him — but  something  you  said  the  other  night 
about  stage-coaching  made  me  think  that  perhaps 
you  could  drive.  Of  course,  any  of  the  boys 
could  drive,  but — well,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
I  can  never  get  them  to  talk  to  me;  and  to  ride 
forty  miles  with  a  man  who  is  too  embarrassed 
to  talk,  and  who  hates  you  because  he  can't  chew 
tobacco — that  isn't  so  pleasant — now,  is  it?" 

"Why,  no,  I  presume  not,"  agreed  Bowles. 
"You  know,  I'm  recently  from  the  East,  and  per 
haps  that's  why  I  notice  it,  but  these  Western 
men  seem  very  difficult  to  get  acquainted  with. 
Of  course  I'm  a  greenhorn  and  all  that,  and  I 
suppose  they  haven't  much  respect  for  me  as  a 
cowboy,  but  it's  such  a  peculiar  thing — no  one 
will  speak  to  me  directly.  Even  when  they  make 
fun  of  me,  they  keep  it  among  themselves.  Brig- 
ham  Clark  is  the  only  one  who  gives  me  any 
degree  of  friendship — and,  that  reminds  me,  I 
must  get  him  some  tobacco  in  town." 

"Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Lee. 
"I  guess  I  do !  Think  of  living  out  here  for 
thirty  years,  Mr.  Bowles,  and  having  them  still 
hold  aloof.  With  Dixie,  now,  it  is  different. 
She  was  born  here,  and  in  a  way  she  speaks  their 
[142] 


PROMOTED 

language.  I  have  done  my  best,  to  be  sure,  to 
keep  her  diction  pure — and  Henry  even  has  given 
up  all  his  old,  careless  ways  of  speaking  in  order 
to  do  his  part;  but,  somehow,  .she  has  learned  the 
vernacular  from  these  cowboys,  and  in  spite  of 
all  I  can  say  she  will  persist  in  using  it.  It  was 
only  yesterday  that  I  overheard  her  say  to 
Hardy:  'Yes,  I  can  ride  ary  hawse  in  the  pen!' 
And  she  says  'You-all'  like  a  regular  Texan.  Of 
course,  that  is  Southern  too — and  I  have  known 
some  very  cultivated  Texans — but,  oh,  it  makes 
me  feel  so  bad  that  my  daughter  should  fall  into 
these  careless  ways!  I  have  been  in  Arizona 
nearly  thirty  years  now,  and  it  has  meant  the  loss 
of  a  great  deal  to  me  in  many  ways;  but  there 
was  one  thing  I  would  not  give  up,  Mr.  Bowles — 
I  would  not  give  up  my  educated  speech!" 

She  ended  with  some  emotion,  and  Bowles 
glanced  at  her  curiously,  but  he  made  no  carping 
comments.  When  a  lady  has  sacrificed  so  much 
to  preserve  the  language  of  her  fathers,  it  would 
be  a  poor  return  indeed  to  give  her  aught  but 
praise — and  yet  he  could  sense  it  dimly  that  she 
had  paid  a  fearful  price.  Personally,  he  was  be 
ginning  to  admire  the  direct  speech  of  Dixie  May, 
even  to  the  extent  of  dropping  some  of  his  more 
obvious  Eastern  variants;  but  to  the  mother  he 
hid  the  leanings  of  his  heart. 

[143] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Your  accent  is  certainly  very  pure,"  he  said. 
"Really,  I  have  never  heard  more  perfect  En 
glish—except,  perhaps,  from  some  highly  edu 
cated  foreigner.  Our  tendency  to  lapse  into  the 
vernacular  lays  us  all  open  to  criticism,  of  course. 
But  don't  you  find,  Mrs.  Lee,  that  your  Eastern 
speech  is  a  bar,  in  a  way,  to  the  closest  relations 
with  your  neighbors?  I  know  with  me  it  has  been 
that  way,  and  I  am  already  trying  to  adopt  the 
Western  idiom  as  far  as  possible.  Why,  really, 
when  I  first  came,  they  ridiculed  me  so  for  say 
ing  'Beg  pardon'  that  I  doubt  if  I  shall  ever  use 
the  expression  again.  And  I  am  having  such  a 
struggle  to  say  'calves' — not  'cahves,'  you  know, 
but  'calves'!  It  is  all  right  to  say  'brahnding 
cahves'  back  in  New  York,  but  out  here  it  is  so 
frightfully  conspicuous!  And  besides " 

"Oh,  now,  Mr.  Bowles,"  protested  Mrs.  Lee, 
laying  a  restraining  hand  on  his  arm,  "I  hope  you 
will  not  shatter  all  my  hopes  by  falling  into  this 
dreadful  vernacular.  If  you  only  knew  how 
much  I  enjoy  your  manner  of  speaking,  if  you 
knew  what  memories  of  New  York  and  the  old 
life  your  words  bring  up,  you  would  hesitate,  I 
am  sure,  to  cast  aside  your  heritage.  Really,  if 
Henry  would  have  let  me,  I  should  have  invited 
you  up  to  the  house  the  very  evening  you  came; 
but  you — well,  you  had  some  disagreement  with 
[H4] 


PROMOTED 

him  at  the  start,  and  it's  rather  prejudiced  him 
against  you.  And,  besides,  he  has  his  ideas  of 
discipline,  you  know,  and  against  making  excep 
tions  of  one  man  over  another;  and  so — well,  I 
did  hope  you  would  be  able  to  drive,  because  now 
I  want  to  have  a  good  long  talk. 

"I'm  not  proud,  or  'stuck  up/  as  they  say  out 
here,  Mr.  Bowles,"  she  went  on,  as  if  eager  to 
begin  her  holiday;  uand  really  I  do  everything 
in  my  power  to  be  friendly,  but  the  class  of 
people  who  come  here — these  poor,  ignorant  nest- 
ers,  and  rough,  hard-swearing  cowboys — they 
seem  actually  to  resent  my  manner  of  speaking. 
Of  course,  I  was  a  school-teacher  for  a  few 
years — before  I  married  Henry — and  I  suppose 
that  has  made  a  difference;  but  I  do  get  so  lonely 
sometimes,  with  Dixie  out  riding  around  some 
where  and  Henry  off  on  the  round-up — and  yet 
I  just  can't  bring  myself  to  speak  this  awful,  vul 
gar  Texas-talk.  Now  Dixie,  she  rides  around 
anywhere,  speaks  to  all  the  women,  says  'Howdy' 
to  all  the  men,  and,  I  declare,  when  I  hear  her 
talking  with  these  cowboys  I  wonder  if  she's  my 
own  daughter!  They  have  such  common  ways 
of  expressing  themselves,  although  I  must  say 
they  are  always  polite  enough — but  what  I  really 
object  to  is  their  familiar  attitude  toward  Dixie. 
No  matter  what  their  class  or  station,  they  al- 

C.I45] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

ways  seem  to  take  it  for  granted  that  they  are 
perfectly  eligible,  and  that  she  is  sure  to  marry 
one  of  them,  and  that  even  the  commonest  has  a 
kind  of  gambler's  chance  to  win  her  hand." 

She  paused,  overcome  apparently  by  memories 
of  past  courtships,  and  Bowles  shuffled  his  feet 
uneasily. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  at  length,  "your  daughter 
is  very  attractive " 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lee, 
making  no  concealment  of  her  pleasure  in  the 
fact.  "I  thought,  from  the  way  you  spoke  to 
her — when  I  introduced  you,  you  know " 

"Oh,  that  was  just  my  manner!"  interrupted 
Bowles  hastily.  "A  little  embarrassed,  perhaps." 

"But  I  thought,"  persisted  Mrs.  Lee,  "I 
thought  from  the  way  you  both  acted  that  you 
had  met  before.  In  New  York,  perhaps — you 
know,  she  has  been  there  all  winter — or  some 
time  before  that  evening.  You  know,  Dixie  is 
generally  so  free  with  the  new  cowboys,  but  she 
spoke  up  at  you  so  sharply,  and  you " 

"Ah — excuse  me,"  interposed  Bowles,  "per 
haps  I  would  better  explain.  I  did  meet  your 
daughter,  very  informally  to  be  sure,  on  the 
morning  of  my  arrival  at  Chula  Vista.  It  was 
that  which  caused  my  embarrassment — always 
painful  when  people  fail  to  recognize  you,  you 


PROMOTED 

know — and  especially  with  a  lady.  Er — what  do 
all  these  prairie-dogs  live  on,  Mrs.  Lee?  We 
have  passed  so  many  of  them,  but  I  don't  see " 

"Mr.  Bowles,"  said  Mrs.  Lee,  placing  her 
hand  once  more  upon  his  arm  and  looking  at  him 
with  an  anxious  mother's  eyes,  "I  want  you  to 
meet  my  daughter  again.  She  was  in  New  York 
all  winter,  you  know,  and  perhaps  you  have  some 
friends  in  common.  Anyway,  I  wish  we  could  see 
more  of  you — it  would  be  such  a  pleasure  to  me, 
and  Dixie " 

She  let  her  eyes  express  her  longing  for  the  im 
provement  of  Dixie's  diction — a  certain  approval, 
too,  of  Bowles — but  he  did  not  respond  at  once. 
Fighting  within  his  breast  was  a  mad,  fatuous  de 
sire  to  stand  in  the  presence  of  his  beloved,  to 
hear  the  music  of  her  voice  and  behold  the  swift 
ness  and  grace  of  her  comings  and  goings;  but 
almost  as  an  echo  in  his  ears  he  could  hear  the 
mocking  formalism  of  her  answers,  and  feel  the 
scorn  in  her  eyes  as  she  sneered  at  him  for  pur 
suing  her.  His  face  became  graver  as  he  thought, 
and  then,  with  the  ready  wit  of  his  kind,  he 
framed  up  a  tactful  excuse. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  he  said.  "It's  very  kind  of 
you,  I'm  sure — and  there  is  nothing  I  should  en 
joy  more — but  under  the  circumstances  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  have  to  decline.  You  know  of 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

course  that,  whatever  my  life  may  have  been  in 
the  past,  at  present  I  am  nothing  but  a  hired 
hand — and  a  very  poor  hand  at  that,  I  am  afraid. 
And  since  Mr.  Lee  has  asked  you  not  to  make 
exceptions  among  the  men,  I  should  be  very  sorry 
indeed  to  go  against  his  wishes." 

"Oh,  that  is  not  the  rule,  Mr.  Bowles,"  pro 
tested  Mrs.  Lee.  "We  make  exceptions  to  it  all 
the  time,  and  I  am  sure  Henry  would  be  glad  to 
have  you  come.  Some  evening  after  supper,  you 
know.  I  want  so  much  to  have  Dixie  meet  people 
of  refinement  and  education,  and  while  for  the 
moment  you  may  be  working  as  a  common  cow 
boy,  of  course  we  know " 

"You  know  very  little,  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  in 
terposed  Bowles;  "and  I  am  sorry  that  circum 
stances  make  it  impossible  for  me  to  discuss  my 
antecedents.  But  has  it  not  occurred  to  you,  Mrs. 
Lee,  that,  considering  the  attitude  of  the  cowboys 
in  the  past,  it  might — well,  my  motives  might  be 
misunderstood — if  I  should  call." 

"Why,  surely,  Mr.  Bowles,"  began  Mrs.  Lee, 
her  eyes  big  with  wonder,  "you  are  not — er — 
afraid  of  what  the  cowboys " 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  protested  Bowles,  blushing  to 
the  tips  of  his  sunburned  ears.  "Certainly  not! 
I  did  not  mean  the  cowboys." 

"Well,  what  then?"  demanded  Mrs.  Lee,  in 
perplexity. 

[148] 


PROMOTED 

Mr.  Bowles  hesitated  a  moment,  looking 
straight  ahead  to  where  Chula  Vista  rose  between 
the  horses'  ears. 

"You  will  excuse  me,  Mrs.  Lee,  I'm  sure,"  he 
said,  speaking  very  low.  "But  when  I  spoke  of 
my  motives  being  misunderstood,  I  did  not  have 
reference  to  the  cowboys.  I  was — er — thinking 
of  your  daughter." 

"My  daughter!"  echoed  Mrs.  Lee,  suddenly 
sitting  up  very  straight  in  her  seat.  Then,  as 
the  significance  of  his  remarks  became  evident, 
she  gazed  across  at  him  reproachfully. 

"Why,  Mr.  Bowles!"  she  said;  and  then  there 
was  a  long,  pensive  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
thud  of  flying  feet,  the  rattle  and  rumble  of 
wheels,  and  the  yikr-r-r  of  startled  prairie-dogs. 


[149] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  LETTER  FROM  THE  POSTMISTRESS 

THE  morning  after  Bowies'  return  from  his 
trip  to  Chula  Vista — during  which  he  had 
made  the  startling  proposition  about  being  mis 
understood  by  Dixie  Lee — the  entire  Bat  Wing  out 
fit  packed  up  its  plunder  and  pulled  out  for  the  big 
round-up.  First  the  cowboys,  with  a  fifteen-mile 
ride  ahead  of  them  before  they  began  to  gather, 
went  stringing  across  the  plains  at  a  high  trot; 
then  the  remuda,  stretching  out  in  a  mighty  fan  of 
horses,  came  fogging  along  behind  them,  to  be 
ready  for  a  change  at  the  cutting-grounds;  and 
last  the  chuck-wagon  and  the  bed-wagon — one 
full  of  Dutch  ovens  and  provisions,  the  other 
piled  high  with  well-lashed  beds — went  hammer 
ing  through  chuck  holes  and  dipping  into  dry 
washes  in  a  desperate  attempt  to  reach  the  ren 
dezvous  in  time  for  dinner. 

A  gangling  youth  in  overalls,  and  with  a  pair 
of  cheap  "can-opener"  spurs  on  his  shoes,  acted 
the  part  of  assistant  to  the  horse-wrangler;  and 
an  open-faced  individual  with  a  great  taste  for 


A  LETTER  FROM  THE  POSTMISTRESS 

plug  tobacco  and  the  song  called  "Casey  Jones" 
drove  the  bed-wagon  for  Gloomy  Gus;  but 
Bowles  rode  out  with  the  cowboys.  By  a  piece 
of  good  luck,  he  had  backed  Wa-ha-lote  into  a 
corner  that  morning,  and  so  menaced  him  with 
his  rope  that  the  good-natured  monarch  had 
finally  stood  and  surrendered  for  a  handful  of 
sugar.  So  Mr.  Bowles  rode  out  in  style,  without 
any  ostensible  glances  toward  the  big  house, 
where  Dixie  May  was  reviewing  her  admirers 
from  the  gallery.  By  this  time,  of  course,  Mrs. 
Lee  would  have  informed  her  daughter  of  the 
Eastern  stray's  presumption — of  his  daring  to 
suggest  that,  in  case  he  called,  she,  Dixie,  might 
misunderstand  his  motives  and  think  he  was  lay 
ing  siege  to  her  heart — and  of  course  Dixie  May 
would  be  indignant ! 

But,  if  she  was,  she  carried  it  off  well,  for 
Bowles  never  got  a  look  from  her.  Of  course, 
in  a  bunch  of  thirty  cowboys,  even  on  such  a  fancy 
mount  as  high-headed  Wa-ha-lote,  one  man  does 
not  stand  out  conspicuously  from  the  rest — that 
is,  not  unless  his  horse  is  pitching.  Hardy  Atkins 
was  on  an  outlaw  sorrel  called  El  Paso  del  Norte, 
and  he  made  up  the  center  of  the  picture.  Del 
Norte  was  a  wonder  at  the  buck-jump,  especially 
if  some  one  spurred  him  in  the  shoulders,  which 
Hardy  did,  and  the  departure  of  our  hero  was 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

a  little  dimmed  by  his  dust.  Still  Bowles  was 
pleased,  even  if  he  was  leaving  the  home  of  his 
beloved  for  two  weeks,  for  something  told  him 
that  he  had  at  last  won  distinction  in  the  ruck  of 
suitors — the  only  man  who  had  not  let  it  go  for 
granted  that  he  was  in  love  with  Dixie  Lee.  Of 
course,  he  was — desperately  so — but  an  instinct 
deep  down  in  his  breast  warned  him  to  conceal 
it  from  all  the  world.  And  especially  from  Dixie, 
the  capricious;  otherwise,  she  might  win  him  by  a 
glance  and  a  smile,  and  then  disprize  him  forever. 
But  now  the  stern  realities  of  life  loomed  up 
before  him,  and  Bowles  found  himself  with  a  real 
round-up  on  his  hands.  It  does  not  take  much  of 
a  man  to  sit  on  the  front  porch  and  talk  near- 
love  with  a  girl;  but  to  follow  a  Western  round 
up  is  a  task  to  try  the  hardiest.  For  three  hours 
Bowles  rode  at  a  rough  trot  across  the  valley, 
fighting  down  the  awful  instinct  to  rise  in  his  stir 
rups  and  "bob";  and  then  as  the  distant  hills 
grew  nearer  the  cowboys  broke  into  a  lope. 
They  separated  into  two  parties  that  formed  the 
horns  of  a  circle,  dropping  off  man  after  man  as 
they  jumped  up  cattle,  and  still  spurring  on  and 
on.  The  puncher  with  the  weakest  horse  was 
dropped  first,  for  there  would  be  no  chance  to 
change  till  noon,  and  the  best  mounted  was  saved 
to  the  last  in  order  to  get  his  full  strength. 


\   LETTER  FROM  THE   POSTMISTRESS 

Bowles  was  on  Wa-ha-lote,  and  he  rode  to  the 
end  before  Henry  Lee  sent  him  back  with  the 
herd. 

Very  slowly  now  he  plodded  along  behind  his 
bunch  of  cattle,  riding  back  and  forth  as  he  picked 
up  strays,  and  driving  them  all  to  some  common 
center.  To  the  right  and  left,  and  far  across  to 
distant  hills,  he  could  see  lone  men  at  their  task, 
and  the  great  plain  became  dotted  with  cattle  as 
the  circle  closed  in  on  the  grounds.  A  hundred 
cow-trails,  sinuous  as  snake-tracks,  led  in  to  this 
place  they  all  sought,  and  when  the  lowing 
strings  of  cattle  met  it  was  on  the  flat  by  a 
dammed-up  lake.  There  the  herds  were  thrown 
together,  carefully  so  that  no  mother  should  lose 
her  calf;  and  while  they  stood  them  upon  the  cut 
ting-ground  the  wrangler  brought  up  his  horses, 
and  each  man  caught  out  a  fresh  mount. 

Nowhere  in  all  his  work  is  the  mastery  of  the 
cowboy  more  apparent  than  when  he  changes 
horses  on  the  open  plain.  The  great  remuda  of 
over  two  hundred  horses  was  driven  in  on  the  gal 
lop;  then  the  cowboys  rounded  them  up,  and 
each  man  dropped  to  the  ground.  One  by  one 
they  took  down  their  ropes  and  threw  the  loose 
ends  to  their  neighbors,  and  there  in  a  minute's 
time  was  a  corral  that  would  hold  the  wildest  out 
law,  for  a  rope  is  the  greatest  terror  of  a  cow- 

[153] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

pony.  It  was  a  rope  that  fore-footed  him  when 
he  was  a  colt,  and  bound  him  at  the  branding; 
every  morning  the  long,  snaky  loops  whizzed  past 
their  ears  and  dragged  out  those  who  must  ride 
till  they  were  ready  to  drop ;  and  so,  even  though 
they  had  the  power  to  brush  the  rope  fence  aside, 
the  frightened  horses  huddled  away  from  it  and 
submitted  to  the  noose. 

Bowles  was  barred,  for  his  Mother  Hubbard 
roping  threw  the  herd  into  a  frenzy;  so  he  sad 
dled  up  for  Brigham  and  let  that  doughty  puncher 
drag  out  his  mount.  Then  the  cutting  and  brand 
ing  began,  and  Henry  Lee  put  him  to  flanking 
calves.  Perhaps  he,  too,  had  heard  of  the  ten 
derfoot's  remarks  about  his  daughter;  or  it  may 
have  been  the  original  grouch;  but  Bowles  knew 
from  the  look  in  his  eye  that  he  was  elected  to  do 
his  full  share.  So  he  labored  on,  trying  to  learn 
the  tricks  of  the  older  flankers,  and  schooling  him 
self  to  their  stoical  endurance. 

A  heavy  wind  came  up,  sweeping  the  dust 
across  the  flat  in  clouds,  and  still  the  cutters  rode 
and  roped.  They  ate  dinner  in  relays,  turning 
their  backs  to  the  storm  and  bolting  their  grimy 
food  in  silence,  and  hurried  back  to  the  herd. 
The  sparks  from  the  branding-fire  flew  fifty  feet 
in  a  line,  and  the  irons  would  hardly  hold  heat  in 
the  wind;  but  they  carried  the  work  through  to 


A   LETTER  FROM  THE   POSTMISTRESS 

the  end.  Then  they  moved  the  herd  to  harder 
ground,  and  cut  it  between  the  gusts,  when  every 
horse  turned  tail  and  the  riders  shut  their  eyes.  The 
ones  and  twos  were  lumped  together,  the  strays 
turned  loose  on  the  plain,  and  the  outfit  plodded 
on  to  the  east,  driving  their  cut  before  them. 

That  night  they  camped  at  a  ranch,  throwing 
down  their  beds  in  barns  and  sheds,  and  eating 
in  the  open.  The  next  day  they  braved  the  wind 
and  combed  the  distant  mountain,  riding  far  over 
the  rocky  slopes,  and  branding  in  a  canon.  On 
the  third  day  the  wind  brought  up  rain  and  sleet, 
and  the  mountains  were  powdered  with  snow,  but 
the  round-up  moved  on  inexorably.  Then  the 
wind  veered  to  the  east  and  the  air  became  bitter 
cold;  Gloomy  Gus  could  hardly  cook  for  the  gale 
that  assaulted  him,  and  the  wrangler  lost  eight  or 
ten  horses;  but  still  the  hardy  cowboys  rode  and 
cut  and  branded,  for  a  round-up  never  stops  for 
wind  and  weather. 

As  for  Bowles,  his  face  was  peeled  and  swollen, 
his  eyes  half-blinded  by  dust  and  wind,  his  body 
chilled  through  in  spite  of  his  clothes,  and  he  saw 
himself  in  that  company  like  a  child  among 
grown-up  men.  Half  of  the  cowboys  left  their 
coats  on  the  wagon  until  the  day  of  the  blizzard; 
and  Brigham  was  still  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  having 
rolled  up  his  coat  with  his  bed  and  forgotten  to 
[155] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

bring  his  slicker.  Yet  none  of  them  railed  at  the 
weather;  no  one  quit;  it  was  their  life.  Perhaps 
from  their  earliest  boyhood  they  had  braved  the 
Texas  northers  or  endured  the  continual  sand 
storms  of  high  and  windy  plains.  They  were 
used  to  it,  like  the  horses  that  bore  them;  but 
Bowles  was  a  more  delicate  plant.  All  he  could 
do  was  to  live  on  from  day  to  day,  wondering  at 
their  courage  and  hardihood,  and  marveling  at 
his  own  presumption  in  thinking  he  could  play  at 
their  game. 

A  week  passed,  and  the  wind  grew  warmer, 
though  it  still  swept  in  from  the  southeast.  The 
outfit  reached  the  limit  of  its  circle  and  turned 
toward  home,  sending  its  cuts  of  dogies  on  be 
fore  it.  On  the  first  of  May  they  were  contracted 
to  be  delivered  at  Chula  Vista,  there  to  be  shipped 
to  Colorado  and  the  Texas  Panhandle  and  fat 
tened  into  steers.  But  feed  was  short,  for  the 
cold  had  set  back  the  grass,  and  Henry  Lee  had 
wired  that  he  could  deliver  on  the  twentieth.  So 
while  he  waited  for  an  answer  he  sent  his  cattle 
ahead  of  him,  and  every  day  as  he  rode  he 
watched  for  a  messenger  from  home. 

Nor  was  he  alone  in  this,  for  the  messenger 
would  be  Dixie;  but  no  one  said  a  word.  It  was 
part  of  the  patience  of  these  rugged  sons  of  the 
desert  that  they  should  make  no  sign.  They  were 


A   LETTER  FROM  THE   POSTMISTRESS 

camped  in  a  grove  of  sycamores  beneath  the 
shelter  of  a  hill,  and  the  outfit  was  gathered  about 
the  fire,  when  she  rode  in  at  the  end  of  the  day. 
Each  man  of  them  regarded  her  silently  as  she 
carried  the  word  to  her  father;  and  then,  when 
he  nodded  his  satisfaction,  they  stirred  in  expec 
tation  of  her  greeting. 

"Howd-do,  boys?"  she  said,  vaulting  lightly  off 
her  horse  and  coming  nearer.  *  'Evening,  Mr. 
Mosby;  what's  the  chance  for  a  little  supper?'* 

She  looked  them  all  over  casually  as  she  drew 
off  her  gloves  by  the  fire,  and  for  a  few  minutes 
the  conversation  was  confined  to  news.  Then  she 
went  back  to  her  saddle,  and  returned  with  a 
bundle  of  letters. 

"Well,  boys,"  she  remarked,  with  a  teasing 
smile,  "I'm  postmistress  this  trip,  so  line  up  here 
and  give  me  your  present  names — also  the  names 
you  went  by  back  in  Texas.  'James  Doyle!' 
Why,  is  that  your  name,  Red?  Here's  one  for 
you,  too,  Uncle  Joe.  All  right  now,  here's  one 
from  Moroni — for  Charley  Clark!  Aw,  Brig, 
are  you  still  writing  to  that  girl  down  on  the 
river?  Well,  isn't  that  provoking!  And  here's 
a  whole  bunch  for  Hardy  Atkins.  Every  one 
from  a  girl,  too — I  can  tell  by  the  handwriting. 
No,  Mr.  Buchanan,  you  don't  draw  anything — 
not  under  that  name,  anyway.  But  here's  one  for 

[157] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

Sam  Houghton — maybe  that's  for  you?  No? 
Well,  who  is  it  for?  No,  we  can't  go  any  further 
until  I  deliver  this  Houghton  letter.  Who  is 
there  here  that  answers  to  the  name  of  Sam?" 

She  glanced  all  around,  a  roguish  twinkle  in 
her  eye,  but  no  one  claimed  that  honor. 

"Nothing  to  be  afraid  of,"  she  urged.  "It  was 
mailed  at  Chula  Vista,  and  written  by  a  girl. 
Pretty  handwriting,  too — something  like  mine.  I 
bet  there's  something  nice  inside  of  it — I  can  tell 
by  the  curly-cues  on  the  letters." 

Once  more  she  surveyed  her  circle  of  smirking 
admirers,  but  no  one  answered  the  call.  She 
looked  again,  and  her  eyes  fell  on  Mr.  Bowles. 

"Stranger,"  she  said,  speaking  with  well-simu 
lated  hesitation,  "I  didn't  quite  catch  your  name 
down  at  the  ranch — isn't  this  letter  for  you?" 

For  a  moment  Bowies'  heart  stopped  beating 
altogether  and  a  hundred  crazy  fancies  fogged 
his  brain;  then  he  shook  his  head,  and  gazed 
shamefacedly  away. 

"My  name  is  Bowles,"  he  said  stiffly;  "Samuel 
Bowles." 

"Well,  this  says  Samuel,"  reasoned  Dixie  Lee, 
advancing  to  show  him  the  letter.  "Here— take 
a  look  at  it!" 

She  stepped  very  close  as  she  spoke,  and  as 
Bowles  glanced  at  her  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were 


A   LETTER  FROM  THE   POSTMISTRESS 

big  with  portent.  Then  he  scanned  the  letter,  and 
in  a  flash  he  recognized  her  handwriting — the 
same  that  he  had  seen  on  the  train.  A  strange 
impulse  to  possess  the  missive  swept  over  him 
at  this,  and  his  hand  leaped  out  to  seize  it;  but  the 
look  in  her  eyes  detained  him.  They  were  big 
with  mystery,  but  he  sensed  also  a  shadow  of  de 
ceit.  And  while  she  might  merely  have  designs 
on  his  peace  of  mind,  there  were  other  possibil 
ities  involved.  To  be  sure,  his  name  had  been 
Houghton  on  his  railroad  ticket,  but  that  did  not 
prove  anything  now;  and,  besides,  he  did  not 
want  even  that  to  be  known.  Affairs  of  the  heart 
prosper  best  in  secret,  without  the  aid  of  med 
dling  or  officious  outsiders;  and  for  that  reason, 
if  for  no  other,  Bowles  desired  to  remain  incog. 
Even  with  a  false  clue,  Dixie  May  might  write  to 
New  York,  and  ultimately  reach  his  aunt,  thus 
cutting  short  his  romantic  adventures.  She  might 
even — but  he  skipped  the  rest  of  the  things  she 
might  do,  and  straightened  his  face  to  a  mask. 

"Ah,  thank  you,  no,"  he  said,  speaking  very 
formally.  "Not  for  me — though  the  handwriting 
does  seem  familiar." 

"Maybe  it's  money  from  home,"  she  sug 
gested;  but  still  he  refused  to  accept.  He  was  ig 
norant  of  the  ways  of  women,  but  his  instincts 
were  trained  to  a  hair-line,  and  he  read  mischief 
[159] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

in  her  heart.  Yet  curiosity  almost  tempted  him 
to  accede — or  was  it  the  witchery  of  her  presence? 
For  Dixie  May  stood  very  close  to  him,  closer 
than  was  necessary,  and  as  she  argued,  half  in 
earnest,  she  fixed  him  with  her  eyes. 

The  boys  by  the  fire,  who  had  been  looking  on 
in  wonder,  became  suddenly  restive  and  impa 
tient.  Their  little  game  of  post-office  had  been 
broken  up  in  the  middle,  and  this  stranger  was 
monopolizing  the  postmistress. 

uBut  the  postmaster  thought  it  was  for  you," 
persisted  Dixie  May,  now  apparently  annoyed. 
"He  described  you  down  to  your  hat-band;  and 
if  I  don't  get  rid  of  this  letter  I'll  have  to  take  it 
clear  back  to  town.  Of  course " 

"Aw,  take  the  letter!"  broke  in  Hardy  Atkins, 
striding  over  from  his  place  and  fiercely  confront 
ing  Bowles.  "What's  the  matter  with  you — ain't 
you  got  no  manners?  Well  then,  when  a  lady 
asks  you  to  take  a  letter,  take  it!" 

He  reached  out  to  get  the  letter  and  force  it 
upon  him  forthwith,  but  Dixie  May  tossed  her 
head  and  jerked  the  missive  away. 

"Who  called  you  in  on  this,  Hardy  Atkins?" 
she  inquired,  turning  upon  him  haughtily.  "It's 
a  wonder  you  wouldn't  go  off  somewhere  and 
read  those  pink  scented  billets-doux  I  gave  you.  I 
reckon  this  man  knows  his  own  name  without  any 

[i  60] 


A  LETTER  FROM  THE   POSTMISTRESS 

outside  help.  Now,  you  go  on  away  and  let  me 
do  this!" 

He  went,  his  lips  pouted  out  petulantly  and  a 
shifty  look  in  his  eye,  and  once  more  the  fair 
postmistress  turned  upon  her  victim. 

"Now,  here,"  she  said,  lowering  her  voice  and 
speaking  confidentially,  "I'm  not  trying  to  force 
this  upon  you,  but  I've  got  a  duty  to  perform. 
Think  of  the  poor  lady  that  wrote  this  letter," 
she  urged,  smiling  significantly;  "she  may  have 
something  important  to  tell  you.  And  don't  mind 
a  little  thing  like  an  alias — these  boys  have  all 
got  one."  Once  more  she  smiled,  holding  out  the 
letter;  and  the  boys  favored  him  with  dark  and 
forbidding  glances;  but  Bowles  was  game  to  the 
end. 

"So  sorry,"  he  murmured,  bowing  deferen 
tially;  "but  my  name  is  Bowles,  not  Houghton." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Dixie  Lee,  looking  him  be 
tween  the  eyes;  "so  your  name  is  Bowles,  eh?  I 
certainly  hope  you'll  excuse  me,  stranger,  but  I 
sure  thought  your  name  was  Houghton  1" 

So  saying,  she  turned  and  left  him;  and  after 
pondering  upon  the  matter  for  some  time  Bowles 
suddenly  felt  his  heart  go  sick,  for  she  had  ad 
dressed  him  at  the  last  as  "Stranger." 


[161] 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THE  ENGLISH  LORD 

A  REMARKABLE  series  of  accidents  hap 
pened  to  Bat  Wing  Bowles  immediately 
after  his  discourtesy  to  the  lady — accidents  which 
seemed  to  indicate  that  he  had  lost  his  horseshoe  as 
well  as  the  good-will  of  his  associates.  For  while 
Bowles  had  been  a  raw  hand  from  the  start  it 
had  early  been  remarked  that  horses  would  not 
pitch  with  him — but  now,  on  the  very  morning 
after  his  contretemps,  his  mount  took  a  fit  of 
bucking  which  all  but  landed  him  in  the  dirt.  A 
ttrm  of  years  in  a  military  academy,  as  well  as  a 
considerable  experience  in  riding  to  hounds,  had 
left  Bowles  a  little  vain  of  his  horsemanship;  but 
in  this  emergency  he  had  been  compelled  to  reach 
down  and  frankly  grab  the  horn.  Otherwise  he 
would  have  been  "piled"  before  he  could  recover 
from  the  surprise.  As  it  was,  he  was  badly 
jarred,  not  only  by  the  shock  of  the  buck-jumps 
but  also  by  the  caustic  comments  of  the  cowboys. 

uOh,  mamma!"  shouted  one.  "See  'im  choke 
that  horn!" 

"Let  go  of  the  noodle,  Sam!"  advised  another; 


THE  ENGLISH  LORD 

and  then,  in  a  kind  of  chant,  they  recited  those 
classic  lines  that  are  supposed  to  drive  English 
men  mad: 

"Hit's  not  the  'unting  that  'urts  the  'orse's  'oofs; 
hit's  the  'ammer,  'ammer,  'ammer  on  the  'ard  'igh- 
way!" 

Time  and  again  Bowles  had  explained  that  he 
was  not  English,  that  all  gentlemen  rose  to  the 
trot  in  the  East,  and  that  his  people  had  never 
dropped  an  "h"  in  their  lives.  Like  an  old  and 
groundless  scandal  that  lives  on  denial  alone,  the 
tradition  still  clung  to  him;  and  now,  as  some 
vagrant  fancy  turned  their  will  against  him,  they 
voiced  their  disapproval  in  this  ancient  gibe. 

"It's  Hinglish,  you  know!"  they  shouted;  and 
once  more  Bowles  was  branded  as  an  alien.  And 
all  for  refusing  a  letter  and  speaking  saucily  to  a 
lady. 

As  for  the  lady,  she  stayed  at  a  ranch  over 
night  and  went  out  early  in  the  morning,  taking 
a  short-cut  through  the  nesters'  lanes  for  Chula 
Vista.  A  telegram  must  be  sent  to  the  receiving 
company  that  the  cattle  would  be  delivered  on  the 
twentieth,  the  cattle-cars  must  be  ordered  from 
the  railroad,  and  the  cattle  inspector  notified  of 
the  change;  for  the  grass  was  eaten  down  to  the 
rocks  at  Chula  Vista,  and  a  wait  at  the  pens  would 
be  fatal.  All  these  details  Henry  Lee  trusted  to 
[163] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

his  daughter,  and,  forgetting  the  frivolous  noth 
ings  of  yesterday,  she  rode  past  the  Bat  Wing  out 
fit  without  stopping  or  waving  her  hand.  Then 
somebody  put  something  on  Bowies'  horse  and 
they  started  the  day  with  a  circus. 

A  second  day,  full  of  excitement  and  rough 
riding,  followed,  and  then  the  gang  took  pity  on 
the  poor  tenderfoot  and  left  him  to  think  it  over. 
But  Bowles  was  not  broken  in  spirit;  far  from  it, 
for  he  had  been  secretly  longing  for  a  horse  that 
would  buck.  He  was  rapidly  becoming  so  wise 
that  deception  was  no  longer  practicable.  When 
a  man  has  an  old  staid  cow-pony  rise  up  under 
him  and  try  to  paw  the  white  out  of  the  moon, 
he  is  liable  to  look  over  his  rigging  rather  care 
fully  to  see  what  it  was  all  about;  and  if  he  should 
find  a  yellow  spot  on  the  flap  of  his  saddle- 
blanket,  a  tender  place  on  his  horse's  rump,  and  a 
suspicious  odor  of  carbon  bisulphide  in  the  air, 
he  is  likely  to  shy  away  from  unfriendly  horse 
men,  even  if  he  never  heard  of  "high-lifing"  a 
bronk.  Those  were  eventful  days  for  Samuel 
Bowles,  and  he  found  himself  learning  fast,  when 
Henry  Lee  suddenly  called  him  aside  and  told 
him  to  go  with  Brigham. 

Brigham  was  taking  a  bunch  of  dogies  back  to 
the  home  ranch  and  he  needed  a  man  to  help 
him — also  the  boss  was  getting  a  little  tired  of 


THE  ENGLISH  LORD 

these  sudden  accidents  to  Bowles.  He  was  not 
conducting  a  circus  or  a  Wild  West  Show  but  a  se 
rious  and  precarious  business,  and  a  touch  of 
"high-life"  at  the  wrong  time  might  stampede  his 
whole  herd  of  cattle.  So  he  told  the  tenderfoot 
to  go  on  the  drive  with  Brigham. 

There  is  a  good  deal  left  unsaid  in  a  cow 
camp — so  much,  in  fact,  that  a  stranger  never 
knows  what  is  going  on;  and  Brigham  had  been 
as  silent  as  the  rest  while  Bowles  was  taking  his 
medicine.  Even  on  the  drive  he  was  strangely 
quiet,  chewing  away  soberly  at  his  tobacco  and 
looking  out  from  under  his  hat  with  squinting 
and  cynical  eyes.  They  were  friends  now,  as  far 
as  a  tenderfoot  can  expect  to  have  a  friend,  but 
Brigham  said  nothing  about  stringing  the  cattle, 
and  asked  no  questions  about  gay  New  York — he 
had  something  on  his  mind.  And  when  the  time 
came  he  spoke  it  out. 

"Say,  stranger,"  he  said,  still  calling  him  by 
that  cold  name  which  marked  him  as  a  man  apart, 
udid  you  see  Dixie  Lee  back  in  New  York  last 
winter?" 

It  was  a  bolt  out  of  the  blue  sky;  but  Bowles 
was  trained  to  evasions — he  had  lived  in  polite 
society  and  tried  to  keep  friends  with  Truth. 

"Miss  Lee?"  he  repeated  in  tones  of  wonder 
ment. 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"W'y,  sure,"  answered  Brigham;  "she  was 
back  there  all  winter." 

"So  I  hear,"  observed  Bowles;  "but  there  were 
about  four  million  other  people  there  too,  Brig; 
so  I  can't  say  for  sure.  Why?  What  made  you 
ask?" 

"Oh — nothin',"  mumbled  Brig,  playing  with 
the  rowel  on  his  spur  as  he  watched  the  cattle 
graze ;  "only  it  seemed  like,  the  way  she  spoke  to 
you  the  other  day,  you'd  mebbe  met  before. 
Some  of  the  boys  said  they  reckoned  you  knowed 
her  back  there — she  talked  so  kinder  friendly-like." 

A  thrill  went  over  Bowles  at  those  kind  words, 
but  he  hastened  to  cover  up  his  tracks.  Once  let 
the  boys  know  that  he  had  followed  her  from  the 
East,  and  there  would  be  a  dramatic  end  to  all  his 
hopes  and  dreams. 

"I'll  tell  you,  Brig,"  he  said,  speaking  con 
fidentially;  "I  did  meet  Miss  Lee  down  at  Chula 
Vista  the  morning  she  came  home,  and  that  prob 
ably  gave  them  the  idea.  But,  say,  now — about 
that  letter.  She  didn't  even  know  my  name — 
now,  why  should  she  do  a  thing  like  that?  My 
name  isn't  Houghton,  and  she  knew  I  couldn't 
take  the  letter.  It's  against  the  law !  What  was 
she  trying  to  do — play  a  joke  on  me?" 

He  made  his  voice  as  boyish  and  pleading  as 
possible;  but  it  takes  a  good  actor  to  deceive  the 
[166] 


THE  ENGLISH  LORD 

simple-hearted,  and  Brigham  only  looked  at  him 
curiously. 

uWhat  did  you  say  yore  name  was?"  he  in 
quired  at  last;  and  when  Bowles  told  him  he 
chewed  upon  it  ruminatively.  "Some  of  the  boys 
thought  mebbe  you  was  an  English  lord,  or  some- 
thin',"  he  observed,  glancing  up  quickly  to  see 
how  Mr.  Bowles  would  take  it.  "Course  I 
knowed  you  wasn't,"  he  admitted  as  Bowles 
wound  up  his  protest;  "but  you  certainly  ain't  no 
puncher." 

Bowles  could  read  the  jealousy  and  distrust  in 
his  voice,  and  he  saw  it  was  time  to  speak  up. 

"Say,  Brig,"  he  said,  trying  as  far  as  possible  to 
speak  in  the  new  vernacular,  "I've  always  been 
friendly  to  you,  haven't  I?  I  know  I've  tried  to 
be,  and  I  want  to  keep  your  friendship.  Now,  I 
don't  care  what  Hardy  Atkins  and  his  gang  think, 
because  they're  nothing  to  me  anyway,  but  I  want 
you  to  know  that  I  am  on  the  square.  Of  course, 
I'm  under  an  assumed  name,  and  I  guess  you've 
noticed  I  don't  get  any  letters ;  but  that's  no  crime, 
is  it?" 

There  was  a  genuine  ring  to  his  appeal  now, 
and  Brigham  was  quick  to  answer  it. 

"Aw,  that's  all  right,  pardner,"  he  said.  "I 
don't  care  what  you  did.  Kinder  hidin'  out 
myself." 

[167] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Well,  but  I  want  to  tell  you,  anyway,"  pro 
tested  Bowles.  "A  man's  got  to  have  a  friend 
somewhere,  and  I  know  you  won't  give  me  away. 
I  didn't  commit  any  crime — it  isn't  the  sheriff  I'm 
afraid  of — but  there  must  have  been  somebody 
down  in  Chula  Vista  that  was  following  me,  be 
cause  I  came  away  from  New  York  on  a  ticket 
that  was  signed  Sam  Houghton.  That  isn't  my 
name,  you  understand — but  I  signed  it  for  a  blind. 
Then  I  left  the  train  at  Albuquerque  and  came 
quietly  off  down  here.  But  it  looks  as  if  some 
body  is  searching  for  me." 

"Umm!"  murmured  Brigham,  nodding  his 
head  and  squinting  wisely.  "I  got  into  a  little 
racket  down  on  the  river  one  time,  and  the  sheriff 
was  lookin'  fer  me.  Made  no  difference — the  fel 
ler  got  well  anyhow — but  you  bet  I  was  ridin' 
light  fer  a  while. 

"/'ll  tell  you  what  we'll  do!"  he  cried,  carried 
away  by  some  sudden  enthusiasm.  "I'm  gittin' 
tired  of  this  Teehanno  outfit — let's  call  fer  our 
time  and  hit  the  trail!  Was  you  ever  up  in  the 
White  Mountains?  Well,  pardner,  we'll  head 
fer  them — that's  the  prettiest  country  in  God's 
world!  Deer  and  bear  and  wild  turkeys  every 
where — and  fish!  Say,  them  cricks  is  so  full  of 
trout  they  ain't  hardly  room  fer  the  water.  The 
Apaches  never  eat  'em— nor  turkeys  neither,  fer 
[168] 


THE  ENGLISH  LORD 

that  matter — and  all  you  have  to  have  is  a  little 
flour  and  bacon,  and  a  man  can  live  like  a  king. 
They's  some  big  cow  outfits  up  there,  too — Dou 
ble  Circles,  an'  Wine  Glass  an'  Cherrycow. 
Come  on!  What  d'ye  say?  Let's  quit!  This 
ain't  the  only  outfit  in  America !" 

For  the  moment  Bowles  was  almost  carried 
away  by  this  sudden  rush  of  enthusiasm,  and  even 
after  a  second  thought  it  still  appealed  to  him 
strongly. 

"Are  there  many  bears  up  there?"  he  inquired, 
as  if  wavering  upon  a  decision. 

"Believe  me!"  observed  Brigham,  swaggering 
at  the  thought.  "And  mountain  lions,  too!  A 
man  has  to  watch  his  horses  in  that  country,  or 
he'll  find  himself  afoot." 

"And  the  Indians?" 

"Well,"  admitted  Brigham,  "of  course  them 
Apaches  are  bad — but  they  keep  'em  around  the 
Fort  most  of  the  time,  and  don't  let  'em  carry 
guns  when  they  go  out — nothin'  but  bows  and  ar 
rows.  Come  on — they  won't  make  us  no  trou 
ble!" 

"Well,  by  Jove,  Brig,"  sighed  Bowles,  draw 
ing  a  long  breath,  "I'm  awfully  tempted  to  do  it!" 

"Sure,"  nodded  Brigham,  "finest  trip  in  the 
world — an'  I  know  that  country  like  a  book !" 

"But  let's  finish  the  round-up  first,"  suggested 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

Bowles.  "And,  besides,  I  want  to  find  out  who  it 
is  that's  searching  for  me.  I  guess  I  didn't  tell 
you  what  I'm  hiding  for?" 

"No,"  shrugged  Brigham;  "that's  all  right. 
Then  if  anybody  should  ask  me,  I'll  tell  'em  I 
don't  know  nothin'." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  anyhow!"  cried 
Bowles  impulsively.  "I've  got  an  aunt  back  East, 
and  she's  an  awfully  nice  woman — does  every 
thing  for  me — but  I  have  to  do  what  she  says. 
She  doesn't  make  me  do  it,  you  know — she  just 
expects  me  to  do  it!  Maybe  you  never  had  any 
one  like  that  ?  Well,  I've  always  tried  to  do  what 
she  liked — she's  my  father's  sister,  you  know — 
but  this  spring  I  just  had  to  run  away." 

"Too  much  fer  you,  eh?"  commented  Brig- 
ham,  grinning. 

"No,  it  wasn't  that  so  much,  but  she — she  told 
me  I  ought  to  get  married!" 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?"  inquired  Brigham, 
his  grin  wreathing  back  to  his  ears.  "What's  the 
matter  with  that?" 

Bowles  blushed  and  blinked  with  embarrass 
ment. 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  Brigham,"  he  said,  "she 
picked  out  the  girl  herself!" 

"No!  Never  asked  you,  nor  nothin'?  What 
did  the  girl  say?" 

[170] 


THE  ENGLISH  LORD 

"Oh,  Christabel?  Why,  she  never  knew,  of 
course.  I  came  out  West  immediately." 

A  puzzled  look  came  over  Brigham's  honest 
face. 

"Say,  lemme  git  the  straight  of  this,"  he  said. 
"I'm  a  kind  of  Mormon  myself,  you  know,  and 
these  fellers  are  always  throwin'  it  into  me  about 
the  way  Mormons  marry  off  their  gals — did  yore 
aunt  make  some  trade  with  her  folks?" 

"Who — Christabel?"  gasped  Bowles,  now 
breaking  into  a  sweat.  "Why,  bless  your  soul, 
no!  You  don't  understand  how  things  are  done 
in  New  York,  Brig.  Nothing  was  even  said,  you 
know,  it  was  just  understood!  My  aunt  didn't 
even  tell  me  whom  she  had  in  mind — she  just  told 
me  I  ought  to  be  married,  and  threw  me  into 
Christabel's  society.  But  I  knew  it — I  knew  it 
from  the  first  day — and  rather  than  hurt  Christa 
bel's  feelings  I  just  picked  up  and  ran  away!" 

"Well,  I'll  be  durned!"  observed  Brigham, 
gazing  upon  him  with  wonder.  "And  we  thought 
you  was  tryin'  to  git  Dix!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

BURYING  THE  HATCHET 

TO  the  hard-riding  cowboy  of  the  plains,  the 
subtleties  of  emotion  and  romance  are  a 
closed  book — just  as  the  hand  that  whirls  the 
rope  is  too  crabbed  to  play  the  violin.  Some  of 
us  in  this  world  must  do  the  heavy  work.  Some 
hands  must  be  knotted,  some  backs  bent  with  la 
bor,  some  brows  furrowed  with  wind  and  weather 
and  the  hard  realities  of  life;  but  in  return  the 
laborers  gain  the  strength  of  the  wind-tossed  oak 
and  the  patience  of  the  ages.  There  are  others 
whose  lot  it  is  to  write  the  poetry  and  paint  the 
pictures  and  reach  out  into  the  great  unknown  for 
a  thousand  haunting  chords  and  harmonies;  but 
they  are  a  people  apart.  Their  very  sensitiveness 
makes  them  unequal  to  the  stress  of  life;  their 
slender  hands  cannot  perform  hard  labor,  and 
their  hearts  cannot  endure  the  monotony  and 
anguish  of  unremitting  toil — yet  they  have  their 
place  in  the  world. 

The  time  may  come  when  the  tasks  and  re 
wards   will   be    divided    again    and    each   of   us 
[172] 


BURYING  THE  HATCHET 

be  given  a  more  equal  share,  but  until  that  day 
men  will  fall  into  classes — and  neither  will  under 
stand  the  other.  Samuel  Bowles  had  lived  the 
protected  life,  but  Brigham  had  buffeted  his  way. 
At  the  story  of  the  Lady  Christabel  he  stood 
agape,  marveling  at  the  man  who  could  perceive 
such  subtle  advances,  wondering  at  the  nature 
that  would  flee  for  such  a  cause;  but  in  the  end 
he  gazed  upon  him  pityingly,  and  accepted  him 
for  his  friend. 

"I'll  tell  you,  pardner,"  he  said,  as  they  drifted 
their  cattle  along;  "I'm  up  ag'inst  it,  too.  They's 
a  gal  over  on  the  river — don't  make  no  difference 
about  her  name — but  I  used  to  think  a  lot  of  her. 
Wasn't  skeered  of  her  none,  the  way  I  am  with 
Dix.  She  was  an  awful  good  girl,  too — no  fly 
ways  or  nothin' — an'  I  was  kinder  fixin'  to  marry 
her  when  I  had  this  racket  with  the  bishop.  My 
folks  are  all  Mormons,  of  course,  and  so  are 
hers,  and  I  like  'em  well  enough  in  certain  ways, 
but  I  can't  stand  them  dang  priests.  As  long  as 
I'm  free  I  can  pull  out  and  go  where  I  please,  but 
the  minute  I  marry  and  settle  down  I'm  up  ag'inst 
it  proper." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  inquired  Bowles, 
thinking  of  all  the  awful  things  he  had  heard 
about  the  Saints,  but  discreetly  holding  his  peace. 
"Will  they  punish  you  for  running  away?" 

[173] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"No,"  answered  Brigham,  shaking  his  head 
dolefully,  "it  ain't  that — it's  the  things  they  make 
you  do.  I'm  a  renegade  now — I  don't  pay  tithes 
or  nothin' — but  if  I  settled  down  on  the  river  I'd 
have  to  come  in  ag'in.  Mebbe  jist  about  the  time 
I'm  married  they  summon  me  fer  a  mission.  Two 
years  to  some  foreign  country  to  bring  in  converts 
to  the  church — an'  who's  goin'  to  take  care  of  my 
wife?" 

"Oh!"  breathed  Bowles  sympathetically. 
"That  is  bad!  Why  don't  you  get  married  and 
live  somewhere  else,  then?" 

"That's  jest  it,"  frowned  Brigham.  "Gal's  a 
Mormon  too,  and  she  won't  come.  So  there  I 
am!" 

"Ah!"  said  Bowles;  and  they  rode  a  long  time 
in  silence. 

"That  letter  was  from  her,"  volunteered  Brig- 
ham,  jerking  his  head  back  toward  the  place 
where  they  had  been  camped,  and  after  that  he 
said  no  more.  The  old  cynical  look  came  into  his 
squinted  eyes,  and  he  strung  out  the  cattle  meth 
odically  until  they  came  to  the  home  ranch.  It 
was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  then,  and  they 
lay  over  until  the  next  day. 

The  Bat  Wing  bunk-house  was  hardly  a  cheery 
lounging  place.  Outside  of  the  illustrated  maga 
zine  literature  with  which  the  walls  were  papered, 

[174] 


BURYING  THE  HATCHET 

the  library  consisted  of  three  books — a  boot,  spur 
and  saddle  catalogue,  "Lin  McLean,"  and  that 
classic  of  the  cow  camps,  "Three  Weeks."  When 
the  entire  outfit  was  at  "the  home,"  Happy  Jack 
was  in  the  habit  of  reading  choice  passages  of 
"Three  Weeks"  to  his  friends,  he  being  the  scholar 
of  the  bunch,  and  closing  each  selection  with  the 
remark:  "Well,  I  reckon  that's  plain  enough  for 
you,  ain't  it?"  And  the  boys  would  generally 
agree  that  it  was. 

With  the  memory  of  Happy  Jack  still  in  mind, 
Bowles  took  shame  to  himself  and  read  Owen 
Wister's  "Lin  McLean"  instead,  finding  there  a 
tenderfoot  on  another  range  who  was  worse  even 
than  himself.  As  things  were  coming  now, 
Bowles  hardly  considered  himself  a  tenderfoot 
any  more.  To  be  sure,  he  could  not  rope  in  the 
corral;  but  there  were  several  local  punchers  in 
the  same  fix;  and  when  it  came  to  riding,  he  still 
had  Wa-ha-lote  in  his  string  as  a  tribute  to  his 
skill  as  a  fence  jumper.  He  had  also  sat*  out  a 
bucking  fit  or  two  when  the  boys  put  high-life  on 
his  horse;  and,  taken  all  in  all-  he  was  not  the 
worst  rider  in  the  outfit,  by  any  means.  As  a 
branding  hand,  also,  he  was  able  to  do  his  share; 
he  had  learned  some  of  the  rudiments  of  handling 
cattle;  and  his  face  had  peeled  off  and  tanned 
again,  leaving  him  with  a  complexion  in  no  wise 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

different  from  that  of  his  bronzed  companions. 
And  then,  to  top  it  all,  he  had  won  the  friendship  of 
Brigham,  who  was  so  good  that  he  passed  for 
a  cowman. 

Poor  old  Brigham!  He  never  said  what  was 
in  that  letter  from  his  girl,  but  Bowles  knew  he 
was  wrestling  with  his  problem.  His  carefree 
laugh  was  silenced  for  the  time  and,  after  cook 
ing  up  a  little  food  in  the  kitchen  that  stood  next 
to  the  bunk-house,  he  had  caught  up  a  fresh  mount 
and  ridden  off  alone.  The  windmill  man  and  the 
fence  mender  were  out  on  their  rounds,  and  Bowles 
was  reading  "The  Winning  of  the  Biscuit- 
shooter"  and  wondering  if  it  was  true,  when  a 
horse  trotted  into  the  yard.  Presently  he  heard 
a  saddle  hit  the  ground,  and  the  pasture  gate 
swing  to,  and  then  there  was  a  clank  of  spurs  on 
the  stoop.  The  door  swung  open,  and  as  he 
glanced  up  from  where  he  lay  he  saw  Dixie  Lee 
looking  in  at  him. 

The  instincts  of  a  lifetime  prompted  Bowles  to 
rise  to  his  feet  and  bow,  but  other  instincts  were 
crowding  in  on  him  now,  and  he  only  nodded  his 
head.  The  memory,  perhaps,  of  a  fake  letter  to 
Samuel  Houghton  gave  color  to  his  indifference, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  gazed  at  her 
with  a  shadow  of  disapproval.  She  was  glorious 
indeed  to  look  upon ;  but  it  is  the  heart  that  counts, 
and  Dixie  had  seemed  a  little  unkind.  So  he  lay 


BURYING  THE  HATCHET 

there  with  the  book  before  him,  and  waited  for 
her  to  speak.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had  been 
alone  together  since  he  had  left  her  at  Chula 
Vista,  and  it  was  not  his  part  to  make  advances 
after  what  she  had  told  him  then. 

As  for  Dixie,  she  seemed  suddenly  embarrassed 
and  ill  at  ease,  though  she  carried  it  off  with  her 
usual  frontier  recklessness. 

"Hello  there,  cowboy!"  she  said,  dropping 
down  on  the  steps.  "Where'd  you  come  from?" 

"I  came  from  the  upper  water  with  Brig,"  an 
swered  Bowles,  speaking  for  his  part  with  decor 
ous  politeness.  "We  brought  down  a  bunch  of 


twos." 


A  smile  swept  over  Dixie  Lee's  face  at  this 
lapse  into  the  vernacular,  but  she  brushed  it  away 
as  he  frowned. 

"Bunch  of  twos,  eh?"  she  repeated.  "Say, 
you're  getting  to  be  a  regular  cowboy  now,  ain't 
you? 

"Where's  Brig?"  she  inquired,  when  she  saw 
that  her  remark  displeased  him;  and  once  more 
he  answered  and  fell  silent. 

"He's  a  great  fellow,  old  Brig,"  she  went  on, 
settling  herself  comfortably  against  the  door-sill 
and  indicating  that  the  conversation  was  on;  "you 
seem  to  be  pretty  thick  with  him!" 

"Yes,"  agreed  Bowles,  sitting  up  and  laying  his 
book  aside;  "I  like  Brigham  very  much." 

[177] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"He's  a  great  fellow  to  tell  stories,"  continued 
Dixie;  "always  talking  and  laughing,  too— I 
never  did  see  such  a  good-natured  man." 

"Yes,"  assented  Bowles  a  little  doubtfully;  "I 
guess  he's  awfully  good-natured — but  even  fat 
folks  have  their  troubles,  you  know." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  Brig?  Has  he 
run  out  of  chewing  tobacco?" 

"Well,  no,"  said  Bowles;  "it's  not  that.  I 
guess  it's  that  letter  you  gave  him." 

"Letter!"  repeated  Dixie  incredulously. 
"What,  from  his  girl?  Oh,  he'll  be  all  right  in  a 
day  or  so — who  ever  heard  of  a  cowboy  going 
into  a  decline?  And  say,  talking  about  letters, 
why  didn't  you  take  that  one  I  wrote  you  the 
other  day?  I  had  something  mighty  special  to 
communicate  to  you  in  that,  but  you'll  never  get 
it  now!  I  hope  the  boys  did  something  to  you!" 

"Yes,"  answered  Bowles  serenely;  "they  hazed 
me  for  a  day  or  two.  You  seem  to  have  a  great 
many  admirers  out  here,  Miss  Lee." 

Dixie  May's  eyes  flashed  at  the  evident  impli 
cation,  and  she  had  a  retort  on  her  lips,  but  some 
thing  in  his  manner  restrained  her. 

"How  can  I  help  it  if  the  boys  get  foolish?" 
she  demanded  severely.  "And  you  don't  want  to 
let  your  Eastern  ideas  deceive  you — it's  the  cus 
tom  of  the  country  out  here." 


BURYING  THE  HATCHET 

"Yes,  indeed,"  purled  Bowles;  "and  a  very 
pretty  custom,  too.  Have  you  just  come  back 
from  Chula  Vista?" 

"Yes,  I  have!"  snapped  Dixie.  "But  you  don't 
need  to  get  so  superior  about  it !  I  guess  I  can  do 
what  I  please,  can't  I?" 

"Why,  certainly,"  assented  Bowles. 

"Well,  then,  what  do  you  want  to  get  so  su 
percilious  for?"  raged  Dixie.  "I  don't  know, 
there's  something  about  the  way  you  talk  that 
fairly  maddens  me !  I've  a  good  mind  to  tell  the 
boys  who  you  are,  and  have  them  run  you  out  of 
the  country!  Why  didn't  you  take  that  letter  I 
wrote  you?" 

She  was  angry  now,  and  her  voice  was  pitched 
high  for  a  scolding,  but  Bowles  showed  no  signs 
of  fear. 

"The  letter  you  wrote  was  addressed  to  Sam 
uel  Houghton,"  he  said;  "and  that  is  not  my 


name." 


"Well,  what  is  your  name,  then?"  demanded 
Dixie.  "Bowles?" 

For  a  moment  Bowles  gazed  at  her,  and  there 
was  a  pained  look  in  his  eyes — what  if  his  beloved 
should  turn  out  to  be  a  scold? 

"Why  do  you  ask?"  he  inquired;  and  so  gently 
did  he  say  it  that  she  faltered,  as  if  ashamed. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  guess  it  isn't  any  of  my 
[179] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

business,  is  it?  I  don't  know  what  I'm  doing 
here,  anyway.  If  there's  any  one  thing  that 
makes  Mother  furious,  it's  to  see  me  hanging 
around  the  bunk-house.  She  thinks  I " 

She  rose  suddenly,  and  shook  out  her  skirt,  but 
Bowles  did  not  protest. 

"You  don't  seem  to  care  whether  I  go  or  not?" 
she  pouted. 

"Quite  the  contrary,  I  assure  you,  Miss  Lee," 
declared  Bowles  earnestly.  "But  I'm  not  on  my 
own  ground  now,  and — well,  I  don't  wish  to  take 
advantage  of  your  hospitality." 

"No,"  said  Dixie  with  gentle  irony,  "nothing 
like  that !  You  want  to  be  careful  how  you  treat 
these  Arizona  girls — they're  liable  to  misunder 
stand  your  motives !" 

Bowies'  eyes  lighted  up  with  a  merry  twinkle, 
but  he  preserved  his  poker  face. 

"Oh,  I  hope  not!"  he  said;  and  then  both  of 
them  smiled  very  knowingly. 

"The  reason  I  wanted  to  get  your  name,"  ob 
served  Dixie,  sitting  down  and  smoothing  out  her 
skirt  again,  "was  in  case  you  got  hurt  or  killed. 
Who  am  I  going  to  write  to  in  case  you  go  out 
like  Dunbar?  Houghton?  Bowles?  Orwho-all? 
You  know,  I  feel  kind  of  responsible  for  you,  con 
sidering  the  way  you  got  out  here,  and " 

[180] 


"  'YOU  WANT  TO  BE  CAREFUL  HOW  YOU  TREAT  THESE  ARIZONA  GIRLS  !'  " 

— Page  I  So 


BURYING  THE  HATCHET 

"Oh,  don't  think  of  that!"  protested  Bowles, 
coming  over  and  sitting  near  her.  "If  I  get  hurt, 
the  boys  will  take  care  of  me;  and  if  I  get  killed — 
well,  it  won't  matter  then  what  you  do." 

"Well,  don't  get  killed,"  urged  Dixie  kindly. 
"And  if  you  get  hurt,  Mother  and  I  will  nurse 
you  back  to  health  and  strength." 

"Oh,  will  you?"  cried  Bowles.  "I'll  remember 
that,  you  may  be  sure !  But,  speaking  of  names, 
has  there  been  any  one  in  Chula  Vista  inquiring 
for  Samuel  Houghton?" 

"Now,  you  see!"  exclaimed  Dixie  Lee  trium 
phantly.  "If  you'd  opened  that  letter  I  had  for 
you,  you'd  have  found  out  about  it.  As  it  is, 
you'll  just  have  to  keep  on  guessing — I'm  mad!" 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Bowles.  "The  reason  I 
asked  was,  Brig  and  I  are  planning  to  make  a  lit 
tle  trip  somewhere,  and  if  I  thought  there  was 
any  one  searching  for  me  I'd " 

"Oh,  you  don't  need  to  run  away!"  explained 
Dixie  hurriedly.  "I'll  tell  you  when  to  skip — but 
you  don't  know  what  you  missed  by  not  reading 
that  letter  I  wrote  you !" 

"Well,  direct  the  next  one  to  Bowles,  then!" 
he  pleaded.  "But,  no  joking,  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
call  attention  to  that  other  name — it's  likely  to 
get  me  into  difficulties." 

[181] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"What  kind  of  difficulties?"  inquired  Dixie  Lee 
demurely;  but  Bowles  only  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  very  sorry  I  can't  tell  you,"  he  said;  "but 
it  means  a  great  deal  to  me." 

"Maybe  I  can  help  you,"  she  suggested. 

"Yes,  indeed,  you  can!"  assured  Bowles,  draw 
ing  nearer  and  smiling  his  naive  smile.  "Just 
don't  tell  anybody  what  you  know,  and  let  me 
have  a  chance.  I've  always  been  shut  off  from 
the  world,  you  know — I've  never  had  a  chance. 
Just  let  me  fight  my  way  and  see  if  I'm  not  a  man. 
I  know  I'm  new,  and  there  are  lots  of  things  that 
come  hard  for  me;  but  give  me  a  chance  to  stay 
and  maybe  I'll  win  out.  You  don't  know,  Miss 
Lee,  how  much  I  treasure  those  stories  you  told 
me — when  we  were  coming  West  on  the  train, 
you  know.  Don't  you  know,  I  think  you  have 
more  of  the  feeling,  more  of  the  fine  spirit  of  the 
West,  than  any  one  I  have  met.  These  cowboys 
seem  so  barren,  some  way;  they  seem  to  take  it  as 
a  matter  of  course.  And  they  all  stay  away  from 
me — except  Brigham.  I  don't  get  many  stories 


now." 


He  paused  and  Dixie  May  eyed  him  curiously. 
He  was  not  the  same  man  who  had  traveled  with 
her  on  the  train.  A  month  had  made  a  difference 
with  him.  But  there  was  still  the  boyish  inno 
cence  that  she  liked. 

[182] 


BURYING  THE  HATCHET 

"You  mean  stories  about  outlaws  and  In 
dians?"  she  said.  "Hunting  and  trapping,  and 
all  that?" 

"Yes!"  nodded  Bowles,  glancing  over  at  her 
appealingly.  "Where  does  that  old  trapper,  Bill 
Jump,  live  ?  You  know — the  one  you  were  telling 
about!" 

"Oh,  Bill?  He  lives  up  here  on  the  Black 
Mesa — anywhere  between  here  and  the  New 
Mexico  line — and  he  sure  is  one  of  the  grandest 
liars  that  ever  breathed,  too.  I  remember  one 
time " 

Bowles  settled  himself  inside  the  doorway  and 
drank  in  the  magical  tale.  It  was  as  if  the  Old 
West  rose  up  before  him,  blotting  out  the  barbed- 
wire  fences  and  the  lonely  homes  of  the  nesters 
and  bringing  back  the  age  of  romance  that  he 
sought.  He  questioned  her  eagerly,  still  watch 
ing  her  with  his  boyish,  admiring  eyes,  and  Dixie 
plunged  into  another.  The  sun,  which  was  get 
ting  low,  swung  lower  and  a  door  slammed  up  at 
the  big  house.  Then  a  reproachful  voice  came 
floating  down,  and  Dixie  jumped  up  from  her 
seat. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  exclaimed.  "There's  Maw- 
seems  like  I  never  get  any  peace !  But,  anyway, 
this  old  bear  with  the  trap  on  his  foot  picked  up 
Bill's  gun  and  threw  the  chamber  open,  then  he 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

looked  up  into  the  tree  where  Bill  was  hanging 
and  crooked  his  finger — like  that!  And  Bill 
Jump  said  he  knowed  it  jest  as  if  that  ol'  b'ar 
spoke — he  was  signaling  him  to  throw  him  down 
a  cartridge,  so  he  could  put  Bill  out  of  his  misery! 
Or  that  was  what  Bill  said.  But,  say,  I've  got  to 
be  running — come  up  to  the  house  to-night  and 
let  me  tell  you  the  rest  of  it!  Oh,  pshaw,  we 
know  what  your  motives  are!  Come  along  any 
how!  And  bring  Brig  with  you!  All  right — 
good-by!" 

She  gave  him  a  dizzy  smile  over  her  shoulder 
as  she  fled,  and  Bowles  blinked  his  eyes  to  find  the 
world  so  fair. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    STRAW-BOSS 

IT  is  the  philosophy  of  the  poseurs  in  pessimism 
that  for  every  happy  moment  we  have  in  life 
we  pay  at  a  later  date  a  greater  price.  Of  course, 
any  one  who  ever  took  a  kid  to  the  circus  knows 
better,  but  there  are  times  when  the  doctrine 
seems  to  hold.  When  Bowles  returned  to  the 
round-up,  the  news  of  his  perfidy  had  preceded 
him — he  had  taken  advantage  of  his  position  and 
spent  the  evening  at  the  big  house!  Thereupon 
the  hotheads  lowered  upon  him  malignantly,  and 
Hardy  Atkins  hunted  up  his  high-life  bottle. 

The  accepted  function  of  carbon  bisulphide  in 
the  great  Southwest  is  to  kill  off  prairie-dogs.  A 
tablespoonful  poured  on  a  cow-chip  and  rolled 
down  a  dog  hole  will  asphyxiate  the  entire  family. 
The  same  amount  poured  on  a  man's  horse  will 
make  the  man  think  he  has  been  shot  with  a  pack- 
saddle,  .and  that  was  what  happened  to  Bowles. 
When  he  became  too  wary  for  the  bottle,  they  re 
sorted  to  other  means,  and  finally  he  detected 
the  bronco-twister  with  a  loaded  syringe  in  his 
hand. 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Now,  that  will  do,  Mr.  Atkins,"  he  observed 
with  some  asperity.  "It's  all  right  for  you  boys 
to  haze  me  a  little,  but  my  horses  are  getting 
spoiled  and  I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  stop." 

"Oho!"  shouted  Bar  Seven  and  the  stray  men, 
who  had  sweethearts  in  other  parts  and  dearly 
loved  excitement.  "He  caught  you  at  it,  Hardy ! 
Now  what  you  goin'  to  do?" 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  do  nothin',"  declared  Hardy 
Atkins,  carefully  stowing  his  squirt-gun  away. 
"No  Hinglishman  looks  bad  to  me,  and  I'll  high- 
life  him  whenever  I  like!" 

"You  will  not!"  said  Henry  Lee,  coming  up  as 
he  heard  the  words.  "I've  had  enough  of  this 
foolishness,  and  I  want  you  to  quit  right  now. 
First  thing  you  know  that  hawse  will  pitch  into 
the  herd  and  we'll  have  a  stampede  on  our  hands. 
Now,  come  ahead  and  clean  out  this  pasture,  we'll 
start  the  drive  for  town." 

They  rounded  up  the  pastures  then,  one  after 
the  other,  and  soon  the  great  herd  of  dogies  was 
strung  out  on  the  road.  At  regular  distances 
along  the  flanks  the  swing  men  plodded  along;  to 
ward  the  front  the  two  point  men  directed  the 
head  of  the  herd;  and,  behind,  the  remainder  of 
the  men  brought  up  the  drag.  They  traveled 
slowly,  sometimes  swinging  out  into  the  hills  and 
letting  the  cattle  feed,  and  as  they  drifted  along 
[1*6] 


THE  STRAW-BOSS 

over  the  rock-patches  the  clack,  clack,  clack  of 
splay-toed  hoofs  made  a  noise  like  rain  on  the 
roof.  At  intervals  some  stubborn  two-year-old 
would  break  from  the  tail  of  the  herd,  some 
fresh-branded  calf  fall  by  the  wayside,  to  be  left 
for  another  drive;  but  the  day  of  the  steer  is  past 
on  the  lower  ranges  of  the  great  Southwest,  and 
feeders  are  easier  to  handle.  So  they  dragged  on, 
drifting  over  to  the  river  for  water  and  back  on 
to  the  plains  for  the  night,  and  many  a  nester's 
fence  was  laid  flat  as  they  jerked  it  to  turn  out 
the  strays.  Then,  at  the  end  of  the  third  day, 
they  came  within  sight  of  Chula  Vista  and  Henry 
Lee  rode  on  ahead. 

"Hardy,"  he  said  as  he  turned  his  horse  toward 
town,  "I'll  leave  you  in  charge  of  the  herd.  Put 
them  into  the  pens  for  the  night,  and  hold  the 
remuda  out  on  the  flats.  I'll  be  down  as  soon  as 
I  find  my  men.  And,  remember,  no  drinking!" 

He  looked  very  hard  at  his  straw-boss  as  he 
spoke,  and  Hardy  Atkins  answered  him  dutifully; 
but  when  the  boss  was  gone  he  turned  and 
winked  at  his  partners. 

"You  hear  me  now,  boys,"  he  said.  "No 
drinkin' !  You  know  the  rule — you  cain't  drink 
whisky  and  work  fer  Henry  Lee!  Umph-umm! 
But  I  hope  to  Gawd  some  of  them  town  boys 
come  out  with  a  bottle!" 

[is?] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

He  smacked  his  lips  as  he  spoke,  and  made  up 
a  funny  face. 

"I  got  three  months'  pay  comin'  to  me,"  he  re 
marked,  and  went  spurring  up  to  the  front. 

"I  never  seen  the  time  yet,"  observed  Buck 
Buchanan,  as  he  loafed  philosophically  along 
with  the  drag,  "that  I  couldn't  git  another  job 
somewhere.  When  I've  got  money  comin'  to  me, 
I  want  to  spend  it,  by  Joe !" 

"Sure!"  agreed  Happy  Jack,  who  had  been 
singing  songs  all  day.  "What's  the  use  of 
workin',  anyway?" 

"That's  me!"  chimed  in  Poker  Bill.  "Let's 
quit  and  draw  our  pay!" 

"Put  these  cows  in  the  pen  first,"  said  Jack, 
snapping  his  fingers  and  waltzing  airily  in  his 
saddle. 

"Whoopee   tee,   yi,    yo,    git   along,   little    dogies, 
It's  all  yore  misfortune  and  none  of  my  own. 

Whoopee  tee,  yi,  yo,  git  along,  little  dogies, 
'Cause  you  know  my  whistle  is  dry  as  a  bone." 

It  was  a  new  experience  to  Bowles,  this  riding 
into  a  cow  town,  and  he  viewed  with  wide-eyed 
alarm  the  evidences  of  dissolution  and  revolt. 
Even  Brigham  was  licking  his  lips  and  gazing  at 
the  town;  and  when  the  first  bottle  came  out  he 
took  a  long  drink  with  the  rest.  Bowles  excused 
[1*81 


THE  STRAW-BOSS 

himself,  and  wondered  what  would  happen;  but 
the  half-drunken  cowboy  who  brought  out  the 
life-saver  never  gave  him  a  second  look.  It  was 
not  so  hard  to  dispose  of  whisky  in  those  parts. 

As  the  herd  neared  town,  the  idle  and  curious 
came  riding  out  to  see  it,  and  Bowles  was  pained 
to  notice  certain  painted  women,  who  seemed  to 
know  the  boys  by  their  first  names.  They  rode 
along  the  herd,  waving  handkerchiefs  and  shout 
ing  greetings,  and  a  sudden  distrust  of  frontier 
morality  came  over  him  as  he  observed  the  shame 
less  response.  The  shipping  pens  were  below  the 
town  about  a  mile — a  barren  square  of  white 
washed  fencing,  backed  up  to  a  side-track  full  of 
empty  stock-cars — and  as  the  weary  cattle  dragged 
along  across  the  flats  Hardy  Atkins  and  a  bunch 
of  punchers  cut  off  the  leaders  and  whooped  them 
on  ahead.  There  was  a  jam  at  the  gates,  a  break 
or  two,  and  then  the  first  timid  dogie  stepped 
fearfully  into  the  enclosure.  The  smell  of  water 
in  the  troughs  lured  him  on,  the  rest  followed, 
and  when  the  main  herd  came  up  it  was  artfully 
tailed  on  to  the  drag. 

At  last !  The  high  gate  swung  to  on  the  harvest 
of  the  long  round-up,  and  the  punchers  raced 
their  horses  to  be  first  at  the  waiting  chuck-wagon. 
In  an  angle  of  the  fence  Gloomy  Gus  had  un 
packed  his  ovens  and  set  up  his  fire  irons,  and 
[189] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

now  as  they  flew  at  their  supper  he  surveyed 
them  with  cynical  calm. 

"Whar's  Henry  Lee?"  he  inquired  at  length; 
and  Hardy  Atkins  pointed  back  to  town  with  his 
knife. 

"He's  over  lookin'  up  his  buyer,"  he  said. 
"I'm  the  boss  now,  Cusi;  what  can  I  do  fer  you?" 

"Oh,  you're  boss  now,  are  you?"  repeated  Gus, 
with  heavy  scorn.  "Weil,  then,  why  don't  you 
send  some  one  out  to  relieve  thet  hawse  wrangler? 
He'll  be  turnin'  the  remuda  loose  pretty  soon, 
from  the  way  he's  been  makin'  signs." 

"Aw,  he'll  keep!"  laughed  the  straw-boss. 
"Hey,  fellers,  who  wants  the  first  guard  to 
night?" 

Nobody  spoke. 

"Somebody's  got  to  stand  guard,"  he  observed, 
running  his  eyes  over  the  crowd.  "First  guard's 
the  best— eight  to  half-past  ten.  Bill?  Jim? 
Hank?  Well,  I'll  make  it  Jim  and  Hank,  any 
how — only  way  to  keep  'em  in  camp.  You  boys 
know  Mr.  Lee's  orders — no  drinkin'  now — I  don't 
want  to  find  you  downtown!" 

"Aw-haw-haw!"  roared  the  crowd.  That  was 
a  good  one — he  didn't  want  to  find  them  down 
town!  Well,  what  would  he  be  doing  down 
there  ? 

"Well,  who's  goin'  to  relieve  us?"  inquired 
[190] 


THE  STRAW-BOSS 

Hank  plaintively.  "Last  time  we  was  down  I 
had  to  stand  guard  all  night!" 

The  bronco-twister  ran  his  eyes  over  the  crowd 
again,  as  if  searching  for  some  one. 

"Where's  that  feller  that  refused  a  drink  this 
evenin'?"  he  demanded  facetiously.  "He's  the 
boy  fer  second  guard — good  and  reliable — and 
Hinglish,  too.  Hinglish,  I'll  ask  you  and  yore 
Mormon  friend,  Mr.  Clark,  to  kindly  stand  the 
second  guard.  Bud  and  Bill  third,  and  Jack  and 
Buck  fourth.  I'm  boss  now,  and  I  don't  stand 
guard." 

"Oh,  thunder!"  grumbled  Brig,  as  he  threw 
himself  down  on  his  bed.  "I  wish  the  boss  would 
come  back.  Them  rounders  will  stay  in  town  all 
night.  Let's  take  a  little  flier  ourselves,"  he 
urged  as  Bowles  lay  down  beside  him.  "We  can 
git  back  in  time !" 

But  a  sudden  sense  of  responsibility  had  come 
over  Bowles  as  he  observed  how  the  crowd  faded 
away,  and  he  held  Brigham  to  his  post.  At  ten- 
thirty,  in  response  to  a  hurried  summons,  they 
took  a  spare  blanket  for  warmth  and  rode  out 
to  stand  their  guard. 

The  stars  wheeled  round  in  their  courses  and 
sank  down  in  the  west;  the  horses  shifted  about 
on  the  barren  plain  and  made  their  customary  ef 
forts  to  escape;  and  when  the  first  cold  light  of 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

dawn  crept  in,  it  showed  "Hinglish"  and  his  Mor 
mon  friend  still  standing  their  lonely  vigil. 

But  for  once  in  a  lifetime  self-sacrificing  virtue 
got  its  reward,  for  Henry  Lee  came  riding  out 
with  his  buyer  at  daylight  and  discovered  them  at 
their  post.  He  did  not  say  much — in  fact  he  did 
not  say  anything — and  Brigham  and  Bowles  did 
the  same;  but  there  was  a  difference  in  the  air. 
At  last  Bowles  had  justified  his  existence — he  had 
stayed  with  his  job  to  the  end. 

There  was  a  hurried  searching  of  the  town  for 
Bat  Wing  cowboys,  a  straggling  return  of  drunken 
and  mutinous  punchers,  and  then,  with  barely 
men  enough  to  man  the  gates,  the  work  of  ship 
ping  began.  By  twos  and  threes  the  dogies  were 
driven  down  a  lane;  the  cattle  inspector  read  the 
brands  and  made  his  tally,  and  the  buyer  passed 
them  on  or  cut  them  back.  Then,  as  the  cutting 
and  re-cutting  was  finished,  the  cattle  were 
punched  up  the  chutes  and  crowded  into  the  cars. 
As  the  day  wore  on,  more  and  more  of  the  hands 
returned  and  took  up  the  prod  pole ;  but  Henry  Lee 
made  no  remarks.  Even  when  his  trusted  straw- 
boss  showed  up  late,  he  made  no  comment;  but 
once  back  in  camp  he  pulled  his  book  like  a  pistol, 
and  began  to  write  out  checks. 

"Well,  boys,"  he  said,  "you  were  drunk  last 
night;  I'll  have  to  give  you  your  time.  Hardy, 
[192] 


THE  STRAW-BOSS 

you're  a  good  cow-hand,  but  I'll  have  to  let  you 
go,  too.  So  here's  your  time  checks;  and  turn 
your  horses  out.  I've  got  to  have  men  I  can 


trust." 


There  was  a  heavy  silence  at  this,  for  all  the 
outfits  in  the  country  were  full-handed  now,  and 
no  one  was  looking  for  men.  And  Henry  Lee 
was  a  good  man  to  work  for — he  treated  his 
hands  white,  fed  them  well,  and  paid  the  top  price 
to  boot.  He  also  kept  the  best  of  them  over 
winter,  while  others  were  riding  the  chuck-line  or 
hanging  around  livery-stables  in  town.  But  no 
body  said  a  word,  for  they  knew  it  would  do  no 
good;  and,  after  he  had  paid  them  off  and  gone 
back  to  town,  the  luckless  ones  who  had  been  fired 
drew  off  by  themselves  and  talked  the  matter 
over.  To  be  sure,  they  had  the  price  of  a  drunk 
in  their  clothes ;  but  they  were  fired  and  put  afoot 
now,  and  town  has  no  allurements  to  a  cowboy 
unless  he  can  ride  in  on  a  horse.  So  Hardy  At 
kins  and  his  Texas  followers  lolled  sulkily  around 
the  camp,  sleeping  fitfully  in  their  blankets  and 
glowering  at  Brigham  Clark  and  the  few  careful 
spirits  who  had  escaped  their  employer's  wrath. 
And  in  particular  they  glowered  at  Bowles,  the 
virtuous  and  dutiful,  and  hated  him  above  all  the 
rest  for  his  air  of  conscious  rectitude. 

Supper  that  evening  offered  no  appeal  to  the 

[193] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

drink-shaken  carousers,  but  they  stayed  for  it  all 
the  same,  hoping  against  hope  that  the  boss  would 
come  back  and  give  them  another  chance.  But 
they  knew  him  too  well  to  think  it — Henry  Lee 
would  let  his  whole  calf  crop  grow  up  to  be 
mavericks  before  he  would  take  back  his  word. 
Still  they  waited,  and  along  toward  sundown,  as 
luck  would  have  it,  he  came  out;  and  with  him, 
riding  like  a  queen  on  her  spirited  horse,  came 
Dixie  May.  She  looked  them  over  coldly,  re 
turning  short  answers  to  their  shamefaced  greet 
ings  and  saving  a  smile  for  the  cook. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Mosby,"  she  said,  pour 
ing  out  a  little  coffee  for  politeness'  sake.  "And 
so  these  boys  had  to  go  on  a  drunk  and  get  fired, 
did  they?  Well,  you  won't  have  so  many  to  cook 
for  now — that'll  be  one  consolation." 

"Yes,  Miss  Dix,"  agreed  the  cook,  "but  mighty 
little,  believe  me!  One  cowboy  is  jest  about  as 
ornery  an'  no  'count  as  the  other — and  whisky  gits 
'em  all.  They're  all  alike — I  been  cookin'  for  'em 
fer  thirty  years,  off  an'  on,  and  they  ain't  one  of 
'em  is  worth  the  powder  to  blow  'im  to — excuse 
me,  Miss  Dix.  But,  as  I  was  sayin',  take  'em  as 
they  come,  and  keep  'em  out  of  town,  and  these 
boys  is  pretty  fair — pretty  fair;  I'm  sorry  to  see 
'em  go." 

At  this  kindly  word  of  intercession,  a  new  light 
[194] 


THE  STRAW-BOSS 

came  into  the  eyes  of  the  unemployed;  but  Dixie 
Lee  had  come  on  a  mission,  and  it  was  not  her 
policy  to  yield  in  a  minute. 

"Well,  I'm  not!"  she  declared.  "If  you'd 
listened  to  the  amount  of  foolishness  that  I've 
suffered  from  these  boys,  Mr.  Mosby;  if  you'd 
heard  'em  say  how  they  were  going  to  save  their 
wages  and  buy  a  little  bunch  of  cows — and  tell 
about  the  quarter-section  of  land  they  had  their 
eye  on — and  swear,  so  help  me  God,  they'd  never 
take  another  drink  of  whisky  as  long  as  they 
lived — I  believe  you'd  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  'em!" 

She  turned  and  ran  her  eye  over  the  crowd, 
and  both  the  just  and  the  unjust  quailed  before 
her. 

"And  so  you  were  drunk,  were  you,  Mr.  At 
kins?"  she  inquired,  fixing  her  gaze  upon  the 
deposed  straw-boss;  and  Hardy  Atkins  shot  a 
look  at  her  which  was  both  confession  and  ap 
peal. 

"And  you,  Jack?"  she  continued  severely. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  spoke  up  Happy  Jack,  upon 
whom  the  severity  of  her  manner  was  lost.  "I 
was  drunk,  all  right." 

"Well,  you  don't  need  to  be  proud  of  it!"  she 
observed  cuttingly.  "It's  no  distinction  in  this 
bunch.  Brig,  were  you  drunk,  too?" 

"No,  ma'am,"  responded  Brigham  promptly. 

[195] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Oh,  what's  the  use  of  talking?"  scoffed  Dixie, 
glancing  at  his  swollen  face  and  bloodshot  eyes. 

"All  the  same,  I  wasn't!"  denied  Brigham 
boldly.  "I  reckon  you'd  look  kind  of  bug-eyed 
if  you'd  been  standin'  guard  all  night!" 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  your  face  then?" 
she  demanded.  "Did  the  ground  rise  up  and  hit 
you?" 

"No,  but  an  old  cow  did,  over  in  the  shippin' 
chute!"  And  Brigham  drew  himself  up  and 
grinned  defiantly.  It  was  not  often  that  he  had 
a  chance  to  assume  this  high  moral  pose,  and  he 
decided  to  make  the  most  of  it. 

"That's  right,"  interposed  Henry  Lee,  who  so 
far  had  let  his  daughter  do  all  the  talking.  "Brig 
and  Bowles  stood  guard  all  night  and  brought  up 
the  remuda  in  the  morning.  I  won't  forget  that, 
Brig,"  he  added  significantly.  "I'm  looking  for 
men  I  can  trust." 

"Well,  good  for  you,  Brig!"  commented  Dixie 
May,  smiling  with  sudden  approval;  and  at  that 
the  other  suitors  fell  into  a  black  rage  of  jealousy 
and  distrust.  There  was  silence  for  a  while,  and 
then  Happy  Jack  spoke  up. 

"Mr.  Lee,"  he  said,  "I  know  I  was  drunk  last 
night — my  own  fault,  of  course — but  here's  the 
proposition.  You  got  to  take  on  somebody  to  do 
yore  work;  what's  the  use  of  hirin'  these  town 


THE  STRAW-BOSS 

bums  when  you  can  git  yore  old  hands  back? 
That's  the  way  we  stand,  and  I  hope  you'll  give 
us  a  chance." 

This  was  a  long  speech  for  Jack,  and  he  wiped 
the  sweat  from  his  brow  as  he  waited  for  the 
answer.  The  rest  of  the  unemployed  rumbled 
their  acquiescence  to  the  statement  and  watched 
for  some  sign  of  weakening;  but  Henry  Lee  did 
not  change  his  frown. 

"I'm  looking  for  men  I  can  trust,"  he  said  at 
last.  "These  boys  here  stayed  in  camp  and  were 
on  hand  to  help  with  the  shipping.  Maybe  some 
of  them  ain't  quite  as  good  cowboys  as  you  are, 
but  I  can  depend  on  them  not  to  turn  my  remuda 
loose  the  first  night  I  leave  'em  alone,  and  I'm  go 
ing  to  make  them  top  hands.  You  fellows  get  the 
top  mounts  and  forty-five  a  month,"  he  added, 
glancing  briefly  at  Brig  and  the  faithful  few,  most 
of  whom  were  nesters  boys,  and  married  men 
working  for  a  stake;  "and  I  want  some  more  just 
like  you." 

"But  how  about  us?"  inquired  Happy  Jack 
after  a  silence.  "I'll  take  on  for  a  green  hand, 
myse'f — forty  dollars — and  ride  bronks,  too. 
And  I  know  that  upper  range  like  a  book!" 

"Sure!"  murmured  the  rest;  and  once  more 
they  waited  on  Henry  Lee. 

He  sat  for  a  while  studying  on  the  matter,  and 
[197] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

then   he    exchanged    glances    with    his    daughter. 

"If  he  takes  you  back,  are  you  going  to  run  it 
over  these  other  hands  and  make  a  lot  of  trou 
ble  ?"  she  inquired  shrewdly.  "Because  if  you 
are " 

A  chorus  of  indignant  denials  answered  this 
unjust  accusation,  and  Dixie  Lee's  face  became 
clear. 

"Then  I'd  take  'em  back,"  she  said. 

"No,  I  won't  do  it,"  rapped  out  Henry  Lee. 
"But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do,"  he  went  on,  as 
the  gang  lopped  down  despondently.  "You  boys 
have  got  your  time  checks.  All  right,  you  go  up 
town  and  cash  them  in,  and  if  you  can  pay  your 
saloon  debts  and  get  out  of  town  sober,  I'll  take 
you  on.  But  if  any  man  takes  a  drink,  or  brings 
out  a  bottle,  he'll  never  ride  for  Henry  Lee 
again — I've  lost  enough  horses  through  drunken 
punchers.  Brig,  I'll  leave  you  in  charge  of  the 
outfit." 

He  swung  up  on  his  horse  as  he  spoke,  and 
Dixie  rode  away  after  him,  followed  by  the  ad 
miring  gaze  of  all  hands  and  the  cook.  Henry 
Lee  was  a  good  boss,  but  the  average  Texas  cow- 
puncher  is  not  weak-kneed  enough  to  court  the 
favor  of  any  man.  Once  he  is  fired,  he  takes  his 
money  and  spends  it  philosophically;  but  in  this 
case  Dixie  May  had  intervened,  and  rather  than 


THE  STRAW-BOSS 

lose  their  chance  with  her  the  whole  gang  had 
taken  lessons  in  humility. 

"She's  all  right,"  observed  Happy  Jack,  wag 
ging  his  head  and  smiling  as  he  watched  her  off. 
"She  wraps  him  around  her  little  finger." 

"Wonder  how  she  come  to  be  down  here?"  in 
quired  a  new  hand;  and  Jack  answered  him,  with 
a  laugh. 

"Ridin'  herd  on  the  old  man,  of  course!"  he 
said. 

"Sure!"  grumbled  Hardy  Atkins.  "The  old 
lady  is  up  there,  too.  That's  the  one  thing  I  got 
ag'inst  Henry  Lee — he's  been  a  booze-fighter  and 
quit.  That's  what  makes  him  so  doggoned  on- 
reasonable!" 

"They  say  John  B.  Gough  and  Sam  Jones  was 
reformed  drunks,  too,"  commented  Poker  Bill 
sagely;  but  there  was  one  member  present  who 
did  not  take  even  a  philosophical  interest  in  the 
discussion.  It  was  Brigham  Clark,  the  new 
straw-boss.  Through  a  chain  of  circumstances 
a  little  hard  to  trace,  he  had  refrained  from  his 
customary  periodical,  and,  behold,  of  a  sudden 
he  was  elevated  above  all  his  fellows,  and  placed 
in  a  position  of  authority. 

"Well,"  he  broke  in  sharply,  "it's  gittin' 
dark — who's  goin'  to  relieve  that  horse  wrangler? 
Bill?  Buck?  Well,  I'll  put  you  on  the  first 
[199] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

guard,  anyhow — only  way  to  save  you  from  yore- 
se'ves!" 

"Aw,  listen  to  the  big  fat  stiff !"  commented 
Buck  Buchanan,  who  felt  the  need  of  a  nap;  but 
Brig  paid  no  attention  to  his  remarks. 

"You  boys  bring  them  in  to  the  pen  fer  a 
drink,"  he  ordered,  with  pompous  circumstance, 
"and  hold  them  out  on  yon  flat.  Who  wants  to 
stand  second  guard?  Jim?  Hank?"  He 
craned  his  neck  about  as  Hardy  Atkins  had  done 
the  night  before ;  and  Hardy,  who  had  been  think 
ing  about  other  things,  sat  up  with  a  sudden 
scowl. 

"Whar's  that  feller  that  refused  a  drink  this 
evenin'?"  demanded  Brigham,  imitating  with  ro 
guish  accuracy  the  broad  Texas  accent  of  his  pred 
ecessor.  "He's  the  boy  fer  second  guard — good 
and  reliable— comes  from  Texas,  too.  Mr.  At 
kins,  I'll  ask  you  and  yore  cotton-picker  friend, 
Happy  Jack,  to  kindly  stand  second  guard.  Bud 
and  Bill  third,  and  Sam  and  Slim  fourth.  I'm 
boss  now,  and  I  don't  stand  no  guard!" 


[200] 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AND  HIS  SQUIRREL  STORY 

THE  upper  range  of  the  Bat  Wing  was  a 
country  by  itself.  To  reach  it  they  rode 
due  north  from  Chula  Vista,  following  an  old 
road  that  had  been  fenced  so  many  times  that 
Gloomy  Gus  became  discouraged.  Twisting  and 
turning,  driving  around  through  new-made  lanes, 
or  jerking  a  world  of  staples  and  laying  the  wire 
on  the  ground,  he  toiled  on  in  the  wake  of  the 
outfit,  which  was  rounding  up  spare  corners  of 
the  unfenced  range.  Behind  him  came  the  horse 
wrangler  and  his  helper,  doing  their  best  to  keep 
the  remuda  out  of  the  barbed-wire,  and  jerking  up 
more  fence  with  their  ropes  than  Gus  laid  down 
with  his  nail-puller.  Certainly  in  that  wide,  wind 
mill-dotted  valley,  the  open  range  was  a  thing  of 
the  past.  It  was  only  thirty  feet  to  water,  and 
the  nesters  were  settling  everywhere. 

"One  more  day  like  that,"  observed  Gloomy 
Gus  as  he  threw  together  a  late  supper,  "and  I 
quit!" 

"Me  too!"  chimed  in  the  wrangler;  and  the 
punchers  felt  much  the  same. 

[201] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"A  few  more  years  like  this  last,"  remarked 
Henry  Lee,  gazing  gloomily  out  across  his  former 
estate,  uand  we'll  all  quit.  But,  thank  God,  they 
can't  farm  the  Black  Mesa." 

On  the  second  day  they  turned  east,  crossing 
the  boggy  river  and  mounting  up  on  a  great 
plateau,  and  then  Bowles  saw  why  Henry  Lee's 
remark  was  true.  The  Black  Mesa  was  high  and 
level,  with  a  wealth  of  coarse  grass  on  the  flats 
and  wooded  hills  behind;  but  hills  and  flats  alike 
were  covered  with  a  layer  of  loose  rocks  that 
made  the  land  a  wilderness.  Even  the  wagon 
road  on  which  they  traveled  was  a  mere  rut 
across  the  rock  patch,  and  from  a  distance  it 
looked  like  a  ruined  stone  wall  where  the  rocks 
had  been  thrown  to  both  sides.  And  the  rocks 
were  black,  a  scorched,  volcanic  black,  with 
square  corners  and  uneroded  edges  that  gashed 
at  the  horses'  ankles.  Deep-cut  canons  wound 
tortuously  across  the  level  mesa,  their  existence 
unsuspected  until  the  rider  stopped  at  their  brink; 
and,  hidden  in  their  sullen  depths,  the  scant  supply 
of  water  was  lost  to  all  but  the  birds. 

Yet  to  the  cowboys  the  landscape  was  cheer 
ing,  for  there  was  bunch-grass  between  the  rocks 
and  not  a  house  in  sight.  It  is  hard  to  please 
everybody  in  this  world,  but  cowboys  are  easily 
pleased.  All  they  want  is  a  good  horse  and 
[202] 


AND  HIS  SQUIRREL  STORY 

plenty  of  swing  room,  and  a  landscape  gardener 
couldn't  make  it  better.  To  Bowles  the  lower 
valley  had  been  a  wild  and  unsettled  country,  but 
he  found  that  even  the  Black  Mesa  was  tame  to 
these  seasoned  nomads. 

"Jest  Wait  till  I  take  you  to  the  White  Moun 
tains,"  said  Brig,  as  he  rode  by  his  side.  "This 
country  has  all  been  fed  off  till  they's  nothin' 
much  left  but  the  rocks — no  game  nor  nothin'. 
But  the  Sierra  Blancas  are  different — that's  them 
over  that  far  ridge." 

He  pointed  at  a  filmy  point  of  white,  half  lost 
between  the  blue  of  the  pine-clad  mountains  and 
the  blue  of  the  sky  beyond,  and  Bowies'  heart 
leaped  up  at  the  sight.  At  last  he  was  in  the  Far 
West — that  strange,  elusive  country  of  which  so 
many  speak  and  which  is  yet  so  hard  to  find — and 
the  untrod  wilderness  lay  before  him.  The 
Sierra  Blancas,  home  of  the  deer  and  the  bear 
and  the  wolf  and  the  savage  Apache  Indians! 
Even  in  his  age  and  time,  there  was  still  a  wilder 
ness  to  conquer  and  the  terrors  of  the  old  fron 
tier  to  stir  the  blood. 

"How  far  is  it?"  he  inquired,  his  eyes  questing 
out  the  way;  and  when  Brig  told  him  he  reached 
over  and  clutched  his  hand.  "Brig,"  he  cried,  "I 
want  to  go  there.  I'd  like  to  go  right  now!" 

He  looked  across  at  his  partner,  but  Brigham 
[203] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

did  not  answer,  and  Bowles  knew  what  was  in  his 
mind. 

"Of  course,  now  that  you're  made  fore 
man "  he  began;  but  Brig  smiled  a  cynical 

smile. 

"Don't  you  let  that  worry  you  none,"  he 
growled.  "The  way  these  Texicans  is  takin'  on, 
I  don't  reckon  I'll  last  very  long.  Hardy  Atkins 
is  the  leader  of  this  bunch,  and  he's  bound  to  git 
his  job  back — I'm  jest  holdin'  on  fer  spite." 

"But  how  can  he  get  it  back?"  protested 
Bowles.  "Mr.  Lee  told  me  you  were  one  of  the 
best  cowmen  he  ever  knew,  and  you  certainly 
know  the  range  all  right " 

"Yes,  but  that  ain't  it,"  put  in  Brig.  "Here's 
the  proposition.  Henry  Lee  is  gittin'  old — he 
can't  be  his  own  wagon-boss  forever,  and  he's 
lookin'  round  for  a  man.  The  man  that  gits 
the  job  will  git  more  than  that — he'll  marry 
Dixie  Lee." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  cried  Bowles.  "Why  should 
he?" 

"Don't  know  why,"  answered  Brigham  dog 
gedly.  "Only  that's  the  way  it  always  goes — 
and  Hardy,  he  wants  Dixie." 

"But  surely,  after  the  way  he  conducted  him 
self  down  at  Chula  Vista " 

"Oh,  that's  nothin',"  asserted  Brigham. 
[204] 


AND  HIS  SQUIRREL  STORY 

"You  think  she  would  marry  him?" 

"Don't  know,"  grumbled  Brig.  "She's  got  us 
all  a-guessin'.  All  I  know  is,  I  won't  last  long  as 
a  straw-boss.  You  wait  till  we  git  up  in  the 
mountains  where  old  Henry  can^t  git  no  more 
hands,  and  then  watch  the  fur  begin  to  fly.  Didn't 
they  all  eat  dirt  to  git  took  back  fer  green  hands? 
Didn't  you  see  'em  talkin'  it  over?  All  they  got 
to  do  now  is  to  git  us  fired,  and  then  they'll  be  the 
top  hands.  Huh!  That's  easy!" 

The  second-in-command  would  say  no  more, 
but  a  few  days  gave  token  of  the  coming  storm. 
As  they  pulled  in  at  the  upper  ranch,  where  cow 
boys  and  "station-men"  did  duty  all  the  year,  the 
stray  men  from  other  outfits  threw  in  with  them 
again  and  increased  their  number  to  a  scant 
twenty.  Bar  Seven  was  there,  after  a  return  to 
his  own  headquarters,  and  several  of  the  other 
men;  but  the  men  who  dwelt  in  the  hills  were  of 
a  different  breed,  with  hair  long  and  beards 
scrubby,  and  overalls  greasy  from  lonely  cook 
ing;  and  they  looked  at  Bowles  askance. 

"Who's  that  feller?"  they  asked;  and  the 
answer  was  always  the  same,  if  they  asked  it  of 
a  Texan. 

"Oh,  that's  a  young  English  dude,"  they  said. 
"He's  got  his  eye  on  Dixie." 

Strange  how  these  men  of  the  frontier  were 

[205] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

so  quick  to  read  his  heart — Bowles  had  talked 
with  Dixie  Lee  only  twice  in  a  month  but  they 
had  read  him  like  a  book.  Or  perhaps  it  was  just 
plain  jealousy,  since  they,  too,  had  their  eyes  on 
Dixie — jealousy  and  a  sneaking  knowledge  that 
he  had  a  chance  to  win.  They  cast  appraising 
glances  at  his  expensive  saddle,  his  silver-mounted 
spurs  and  eleven-dollar  Stetson,  and  hated  him 
for  his  prosperity;  they  watched  him  work  in  the 
corral,  and  scoffed  at  him  for  his  horsemanship; 
and  when  he  talked,  they  listened  to  his  broad 
"a's,"  his  soft  "r's"  and  his  purling  "er's"  with 
wonder  and  contempt.  Not  that  they  listened 
very  much,  for  they  took  pains  to  break  in  on  him 
as  grown  folks  do  when  a  child  is  speaking;  but 
they  curled  their  lips  at  his  coming,  and  exchanged 
glances  behind  his  back,  and  finally,  as  the  work 
progressed,  their  hostility  began  to  take  form. 

For  three  days  the  outfit  lay  at  headquarters 
while  fresh  horses  were  caught  and  shod;  and 
here  Hardy  Atkins  and  his  followers  suffered 
the  humiliation  of  losing  their  mounts.  As  top 
hands  they  had  taken  the  pick  of  the  remuda,  the 
fleetest  runners,  the  gentlest  night  horses,  the 
best-reined  cutting  horses;  but  now  in  the  reap- 
portionment  they  found  themselves  reduced  to 
"skates  and  bronks."  Three  days  of  shoeing  the 
skates,  and  especially  the  bronks,  did  not  tend  to 

[206] 


AND  HIS  SQUIRREL  STORY 

sweeten  their  tempers  any,  and  as  they  moved  up 
to  Warm  Springs  and  began  to  rake  the  range 
the  spirit  of  rebellion  broke  loose. 

Warm  Springs  lies  at  the  bottom  of  a  gash  in 
the  face  of  the  mesa,  and  the  cow-trails  lead  to 
it  for  miles.  Above  there  is  no  water,  below  it  is 
shut  in  by  the  rim  of  the  canon,  and  the  cattle  file 
down  the  long  trail  day  and  night.  Conse 
quently  the  near-by  grass  is  fed  down  to  the  roots, 
and  the  remuda  had  to  be  held  up  on  the  high 
mesa.  All  day  the  horse  wrangler  grazed  his 
charges  in  distant  swales,  bringing  them  in  for 
water  and  the  horse-changing  morning  and  noon; 
and  at  night  the  cowboys  watched  them  beneath 
the  cold  stars — that  is,  when  they  kept  awake. 

On  the  second  morning  three  horses  were  miss 
ing,  the  next  day  two  more,  and  on  the  next 
eight  horses  more  were  gone  and  several  men 
were  practically  afoot. 

"Who  let  those  horses  get  away?"  demanded 
Henry  Lee,  as  he  rounded  up  his  night  herders 
by  the  corral. 

"Not  me!"  said  the  members  of  the  first 
guard. 

"We  never  stopped  ridin',"  said  the  second 
guard. 

"They  was  gone  when  we  come  on,"  said  the 
third  guard. 

[207] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

And  the  fourth  guard  swore  they  were  innocent. 

"Well,  somebody's  been  asleep — that's  all  I 
know !"  said  Henry  Lee ;  and  he  sent  off  two  moun 
tain  men  on  their  best  mounts  to  trail  the  runa 
ways  down  and  bring  them  back.  Then  he  lis 
tened  to  the  mutual  recriminations  of  the  night 
herders,  and  guessed  shrewdly  at  who  was  at 
fault.  For  when  the  night  herders  get  to  quarrel 
ing  among  themselves,  waking  each  other  up 
ahead  of  time,  and  sleeping  on  one  hand  till  it 
slips  and  wakes  them  up,  that  is  a  sure  sign  and 
precursor  of  greater  troubles  to  come,  and  it  calls 
for  an  iron  hand.  Even  as  he  was  listening,  a  row 
broke  out  in  the  round  corral,  where  the  cowboys 
were  roping  their  mounts. 

"Turn  that  hawse  loose!"  roared  Brigham, 
suddenly  mounting  up  on  the  fence. 

"I  will  not!"  retorted  the  voice  of  Hardy 
Atkins  from  within. 

"He  belongs  to  my  mount!"  protested  Brigham 
with  appropriate  oaths. 

"I  don't  care  whose  mount  he  belongs  to !" 
snarled  the  ex-straw-boss,  dragging  the  horse  out 
by  the  neck.  "You  top  hands  mash  yore  ear  all 
night  and  let  my  hawses  drift — and  then  expect 
me  to  walk.  You  bet  yore  boots  that  don't  go — 
I'll  take  the  best  I  can  find.  You  can't  put  me 
afoot!" 

[208] 


AND  HIS  SQUIRREL  STORY 

"I'll  put  you  on  yore  back,"  rumbled  Brigham, 
dropping  truculently  down  from  his  perch,  "if 
you  try  to  git  gay  with  me.  You  may  be  from 
Bitter  Crick,  Texas,  but  you  got  to  whip  me  be 
fore  you  break  into  my  mount!" 

"Well,  he's  got  the  Bat  Wing  brand  on  'im," 
sulked  Atkins;  "that's  all  I  know.  And  as  long  as 
they's  a  hawse  left  in  the  remuda " 

"Here,  here!"  said  Henry  Lee,  walking  in  on 
the  squabble.  "What's  all  this  about?  What 
are  you  doing  with  Brig's  hawse,  Hardy?  Why 
don't  you  ride  your  own?" 

"Well,  these  hyer  nester  kids  and  Mormons 
went  to  sleep  on  guard  and  let  my  top  hawses 
pull — now  I  got  nothin'  but  bronks  to  ride!" 

"Well,  ride  'em,  then!"  commanded  Henry 
Lee  severely.  "And,  another  thing,  Mr.  Atkins ! 
Next  time  you've  got  a  grievance,  come  to  me — 
don't  try  to  correct  it  yourself!" 

He  regarded  his  former  straw-boss  with  nar 
rowing  eyes,  and  Atkins  roped  out  a  bronk;  but 
in  the  evening  he  took  the  first  occasion  to  pick  a 
quarrel  with  Brigham.  They  were  gathered 
about  the  fire  in  the  scant  hour  between  branding 
and  first  guard,  and  Brigham  was  telling  a  story. 
As  was  his  custom,  Henry  Lee  had  pitched  his 
tent  to  one  side,  for  he  never  mixed  with  his  men ; 
and  Brig  had  the  stage  to  himself. 
[209] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Well,  you  fellers  talk  about  gittin'  lost,"  he 
was  saying;  "you  ought  to  be  up  in  that  Malapai 
country.  We  had  a  land-sharp  along — claimed  to 
know  the  world  by  sections — and  he " 

"Aw,  what  do  you  know  about  the  Malapai 
country?"  broke  in  Atkins  rudely.  "You  cain't 
even  lead  a  circle  on  the  Black  Mesa  and  git  back 
to  camp  the  same  day!  My  hawse  give  out  this 
mornin'  tryin'  to " 

"Say,"  interposed  Brigham  peaceably,  "you 
know  what  the  boss  said  this  mornin' — if  you  got 
any  grievance,  tell  it  to  him.  I'm  tellin'  these 
gentlemen  a  story." 

"A  dam'  lie  would  come  nearer  to  it!"  sneered 
Hardy,  curling  his  lips  with  spleen;  and  at  the 
word  Brigham  rose  swiftly  to  his  feet. 

"If  you're  lookin'  fer  trouble,  Mr.  Atkins," 
he  said,  taking  off  his  hat  and  laying  it  carefully 
to  one  side,  "you  don't  need  to  go  no  further. 
And  if  you  ain't/'  he  cried,  suddenly  advancing 
with  blood  in  his  eye,  "you  take  back  what  you 
said,  or  I'll  slap  yore  face  off !" 

The  astounding  ease  with  which  he  got  a  rise 
out  of  his  adversary  seemed  to  take  all  the  fight 
out  of  Hardy  Atkins,  and  he  mumbled  some  vague 
words  of  apology;  but  Brigham  was  hard  to 
mollify. 

"Well,  that's  all  right,"  he  grumbled.  "It 
[210] 


AND  HIS  SQUIRREL  STORY 

ain't  my  fault  if  you  go  on  a  drunk  and  lose  yore 
job,  and  it  ain't  my  fault  if  the  boss  makes  me 
straw — but  don't  you  try  to  crowd  me,  Hardy 
Atkins,  or  I'll  make  you  match  yore  words.  The 
man  never  lived  that  can  call  me  a  liar  and  git 
away  with  it,  and  I'll  thank  you  to  let  me  alone." 

He  went  back  and  sat  down  by  the  fire,  puffing 
and  panting  with  the  violence  of  his  emotions; 
but  as  he  gazed  thoughtfully  into  the  fire  and  no 
one  interrupted  his  mood  he  fell  into  a  cynical 
philosophy. 

"Mighty  funny  about  these  Tee-hannos,"  he 
said,  glancing  around  at  the  respectful  company. 
"They  say,  back  in  Texas,  when  a  man  gits  where 
he  can  count  fifty  they  set  him  to  teachin'  school 
— and  when  he  can  count  up  to  a  hundred  he  gits 
on  to  himse'f  and  leaves  the  cussed  country. 
Ordinary  folks  kin  only  count  to  twenty — ten 
fingers  and  ten  toes,  like  an  Injun.  It's  sure  a 
fine  country  to  emigrate  from." 

He  looked  about  with  a  superior  smile,  and 
Buck  Buchanan  took  up  the  cudgels  for  Texas. 

"They  tell  me,  Brig,"  he  said,  "that  them  Mor 
mons  down  on  the  river  cain't  talk  no  mo' — jest 
kinder  git  along  by  signs  and  a  kind  of  sheep-blat 
they  have." 

"Nope,"  answered  Brigham;  "they  is  sech 
people,  but  they  don't  live  along  the  Heely. 

[211] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

Them  fellers  you're  thinkin'  of  is  in  the  goat 
business — they  don't  say  l>aaay  like  a  sheep ;  they 
go  maaa  like  a  goat.  I've  heard  tell  of  them, 
too.  It  seems  they  don't  wear  no  pants — nothin' 
but  shirts.  They  live  on  them  goat  ranches  back 
in  western  Texas." 

e  paused  and  looked  around  for  apprecia- 
,  but  only  the  nester  kids  smiled. 

"I  was  drivin'  a  bunch  of  strays  down  through 
that  Mormon  country  one  time,"  explained  Buck 
Buchanan;  "that's  where  I  got  the  idee.  That's 
a  great  country,  ain't  it,  Brig?  Lots  of  houses, 
too.  I  remember  I  stopped  one  time  at  a  street 
crossin'  and  they  was  houses  on  all  four  corners. 
They  was  a  lot  of  kids  playin'  around,  and  I  asked 
one  of  'em  whose  houses  they  were,  and  he  says: 
'My  father's/ 

"  'How  comes  yore  father  to  have  so  many 
houses?' I  says.  'Does  he  rent 'em?' 

"  'No,  sir/  the  kid  says,  'he  lives  in  'em.  Don't 
you  know  him?  He's  the  bishop!'  ' 

A  roar  of  laughter  followed  this  brutal  in 
nuendo,  but  Brigham  was  not  set  back.  His  mind 
had  become  accustomed  to  all  such  jests. 

"Aw,  you're  jealous,"  he  grunted,  and  let  the 
Gentiles  rage  until,  as  the  talk  ran  on,  he  grad 
ually  assumed  the  lead. 

"That's  one  thing  you'll  never  find  around  a 
[212] 


M«, 


AND  HIS  SQUIRREL  STORY 

Mormon  town,"  he  began,  still  speaking  with 
philosophical  calm;  "you'll  never  find  no  Texican. 
Of  course,  a  Mormon  has  to  work,  and  that  bars 
most  of  'em  at  the  start;  but,  I  dunno,  seems  like 
the  first  settlers  took  a  prejudice  ag'inst  'em.  I 
remember  my  old  man  tellin'  how  it  come  that 
way — course  they  must  be  mistaken,  but  the 
mons  think  a  Texan  ain't  got  no  sense. 

"It  seems  the  Mormons  was  the  first  folks  to 
settle  along  the  Heely,  and  my  grandpaw  was  one 
of  the  leaders — he  killed  a  lot  of  Injuns,  believe 
me !  But  one  day  when  he  was  gittin'  kinder  old 
and  feeble-like,  he  got  a  notion  in  his  head  that 
he  wanted  a  squirrel-skin,  and  so  he  called  in  my 
father  and  said: 

"  'Son,  you  take  yore  rifle  and  go  out  and  git 
me  a  gray  squirrel;  and  be  careful  not  to  shoot 
'im  in  the  head,  because  I  want  the  brains  to  tan 
the  skin  with.' 

"So  my  father  he  went  up  in  the  pines  and 
hunted  around;  but  the  only  squirrel  he  could  find 
was  stickin'  his  head  over  the  limb,  and  rather 
than  not  git  nothin'  he  shot  him  anyhow.  Well, 
he  brought  him  back  to  the  old  man  and  he  said 
to  'im: 

"  'I'm  mighty  sorry,   Dad;  the  squirrels  was 
awful  scarce,  and  rather  than  not  git  any  I  had 
to  shoot  this  one  through  the  head.' 
[213] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"  'Oh,  that's  all  right,'  the  old  man  says.  'You 
got  a  nice  skin  anyway,  and  I  reckon  we  can  fix 
it  somehow.  I  tell  you  what  you  do.  They's  a 
bunch  of  Texans  camped  down  by  the  lower  water 
— you  go  down  and  kill  one  of  them,  and  mebbe 
we  can  use  his  brains.'  ' 

Brigham  paused  and  looked  around  with 
squinched-up,  twinkling  eyes;  and  at  last  Buck 
Buchanan  broke  the  dramatic  silence. 

"Well,"  he  demanded  roughly,  "what's  the 
joke?" 

"Well,  sir,"  ran  on  Brig,  "you  wouldn't  hardly 
believe  it,  but  my  old  man  had  to  kill  six  of  them 
Texicans  to  git  brains  enough  to  tan  that  squirrel- 
skin!  That's  why  they  won't  take  'em  into  the 
church." 


[214] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  ROUGH-RIDERS 

BRIGHAM  CLARK'S  squirrel-skin  story  was 
not  calculated  to  build  up  the  entente  cordial 
with  Texas,  but  Brigham  was  no  trimmer.  The 
only  kind  of  fighting  he  knew  was  to  stand  up  and 
strike  from  the  shoulder,  and  a  few  cracks  about 
Mormon  marital  customs  had  not  tended  to 
lighten  the  blow.  Numerically  he  was  outnum 
bered  by  the  Texans,  but  when  it  came  to  a  con 
test  of  wits  he  did  not  need  any  help.  He  went 
off  to  bed  now,  laughing,  and  to  all  of  Bowies' 
chidings  he  turned  an  unheeding  ear. 

"Let  'em  roar,"  he  said.  "It's  no  skin  off  my 
nose.  Them  fellers  has  been  cavin'  round  and 
givin'  off  head  long  enough — I  sure  capped  'em  in 
on  that,  all  right.  Well,  let  'em  rough-house  me 
if  they  want  to — they's  two  can  play  at  that  game. 
I  never  seen  the  Texan  yet  that  looked  bad  to  me. 
And  if  they  git  too  gay  the  boss  will  fire  the  whole 
caboodle.  I  ain't  lookin'  fer  trouble,  but  no 
bunch  of  ignorant  Texicans  can  run  it  over  me! 
Umph-umm!" 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

So  the  feud  went  on,  and  when  Dixie  rode  into 
camp  with  the  mail  she  smelled  war  in  the  very 
air.  The  men  walked  past  each  other  with  the 
wary  glances  of  fighting  dogs,  and  even  her  little 
comedy  at  the  delivering  of  the  letters  failed  to 
visibly  lighten  the  gloom.  A  private  interview 
with  the  cook,  who  carefully  kept  out  of  the 
ruction  and  gave  neither  side  comfort  nor  succor, 
revealed  the  fact  that  the  situation  was  serious; 
and  with  the  success  of  the  round-up  at  stake, 
Dixie  May  was  quick  to  act.  When  her  father 
returned  to  his  dog  tent  at  supper-time  he  found 
her  war-bag  inside,  and  with  a  mount  of  horses 
cut  out  for  her,  Dixie  Lee  took  on  for  a  cowboy. 

They  were  up  on  the  cedar  ridges  of  the  moun 
tains  now,  driving  down  wild  steers  from  the 
upper  pastures,  and  a  woman  was  as  good  as  a 
man.  Dixie  was  better  than  most,  for  she  had 
ridden  those  rough  mesas  before  and  could  drift 
off  a  ridge  like  a  blacktail.  Her  desperate  rivalry 
in  the  chase  fired  the  hearts  of  the  most  malinger 
ing,  and  more  than  one  moss-headed  old  outlaw 
found  himself  outgeneraled  and  flogged  into  the 
herd.  And  a  steer  is  a  steer  these  days — he  is 
worth  as  much  as  a  horse. 

Every  morning  as  the  punchers  set  out  on  the 
long  circle  Dixie  May  picked  out  a  man  to  dare, 
and  several  prairie-bred  Texans  failed  to  follow 


THE  ROUGH-RIDERS 

her  over  the  rocks.  Mounted  on  the  best  horses 
in  the  remuda,  knowing  the  ways  of  wild  cattle 
and  the  lay  of  the  land  ahead,  she  took  after  the 
first  puff  of  dust  she  saw  and  followed  it  till  she 
smelled  smoke.  If  her  steer  turned  back,  she 
ran  him  down  and  roped  him,  and  if  her  escort 
did  not  show  up  by  that  time,  she  hog-tied  her 
catch  and  went  on.  It  was  a  wild,  free  life,  and 
she  threw  herself  into  it  recklessly,  glorying  in 
the  unholy  joy  of  beating  them  at  their  own  game. 
She  rode  with  Brigham,  and  Hardy  Atkins;  un 
couth  mountain  men,  and  raw-boned  nester  kids; 
and  finally,  when  the  time  was  ripe,  she  picked 
out  Bowles. 

Bowles  was  mounted  on  his  top  horse,  Wa-ha- 
lote,  and  he  rode  proudly  along  behind  Brigham, 
for  in  the  rough  and  tumble  of  cross-country  run 
ning  he  was  holding  his  own  with  the  best.  A 
bunch  of  wild  cattle  sprang  up  suddenly  from 
their  hiding  place  on  a  far  point;  for  a  moment 
they  stood  staring,  their  ears  silhouetted  against 
the  sky,  and  the  keen  eyes  of  the  straw-boss  read 
their  earmarks  like  a  book. 

"They's  two  Bat  Wing  steers  in  that  bunch," 
he  said.  "Head  'em  off,  Bowles,  and  drive  'em 
down  the  canon!" 

Then  Bowles  leaned  forward  in  his  saddle  and 
raced  them  for  the  high  ground.  He  headed 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

them,  and  they  doubled  to  beat  him  back.  Once 
more  he  headed  them  off,  while  the  outfit  went  on 
with  its  circle,  and  just  as  they  stopped  to  look 
him  over  again  he  saw  a  horse  coming  down  on 
his  right.  It  was  Dixie,  mounted  on  her  favorite 
roan,  and  she  motioned  to  him  to  swing  around 
on  the  left.  Then  the  riding  began  all  over  again, 
for  the  steers  were  wild  as  bucks  and  they  knew 
every  trail  on  the  bench;  but  the  shod  horses 
were  too  fast  for  them  over  the  rocks,  and  as  their 
hoofs  began  to  get  hot  from  the  friction  they 
turned  and  dashed  for  the  rim. 

From  the  high  ridge  where  the  circle  was  led, 
to  the  bottom  canon  where  the  hold-up  herd 
lay,  the  land  fell  away  in  three  benches,  each 
a  little  narrower,  each  a  little  steeper  at  the  jump- 
off — and  Bowles  and  Dixie  Lee  went  over  the 
first  pitch  hot-foot  on  the  heels  of  their  quarry. 
They  raced  back  and  forth  on  the  second  terrace, 
trying  to  head  the  cattle  down  a  natural  trail; 
but  now  a  wild,  self-destroying  panic  came  upon 
them  and  they  took  off  over  the  rough  ground. 

'Til  dare  you  to  follow  me!"  cried  Dixie, 
turning  her  eager  roan  after  them;  and  helter- 
skelter  over  the  rough  rocks,  swinging  and  duck 
ing  under  trees  and  jumping  over  boulders  and 
bushes,  she  went  spurring  after  the  cattle.  Be 
hind  her  came  Bowles,  his  eyes  big  with  excite- 
[218] 


THE  ROUGH-RIDERS 

ment,  staring  at  her  madcap  riding  with  the  fear 
of  death  in  his  heart.  Down  over  the  rough 
jump-off  they  went,  the  dust  and  smoke  from 
friction-burnt  hoofs  striking  hot  in  their  faces  as 
they  rode,  and  by  the  grace  of  God  somehow 
they  reached  the  bench  below. 

"Don't  ride  over  there!"  he  entreated,  as  the 
cattle  scampered  on  toward  the  last  pitch;  but 
Dixie  laughed  at  him,  loud  and  shrill. 

"Will  you  take  a  dare?"  she  taunted,  raising 
her  quirt  to  strike;  and  before  Bowles  could  say 
a  word,  Wa-ha-lote  grabbed  the  bit  and  went 
after  her  like  a  rocket.  Whatever  his  master 
thought,  it  was  outside  of  Wa-ha-lote's  simple 
code  to  let  any  horse  give  him  his  dust.  Wild 
with  terror  and  excitement,  the  big  steers  made 
straight  for  the  jump-off,  which  was  high  and 
steep ;  over  they  went,  with  Dixie  after  them,  and 
then,  like  a  bolt  from  behind,  Wa-ha-lote  leaped 
over  the  rampart  and  went  plowing  down  the 
slope.  Twice  he  jumped  as  he  came  to  dykes 
of  rock,  and  Bowles  stayed  with  him  like  a  hurd 
ler  ;  then,  with  a  lightning  scramble  over  the  loose 
stones,  he  took  the  trail  from  the  roan  and  went 
pounding  down  the  hill. 

Tree  limbs  reached  down  to  brush  Bowles  off, 
sharp  stubs  threatened  momentarily  to  snag  his 
legs,  and  boulders  to  dash  his  brains  out  if  he 
[219] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

fell,  but  the  lion-hearted  Wa-ha-lote  had  asserted 
his  mastery  and  Bowles  could  only  hang  on.  At 
the  bottom  of  the  slide  they  crashed  through  a 
dead-limbed  cedar,  sending  the  bone-dry  sticks 
flying  in  every  direction ;  and  when  Bowles  swung 
up  into  the  saddle  he  was  thundering  across  the 
flat  and  the  steers  were  at  his  bits.  Vague  wisps 
of  smoke,  white  and  smelling  like  a  blacksmith- 
shop,  leaped  up  as  the  harried  brutes  skated  over 
the  rocks,  and  Bowles  knew  that  his  battle  was 
won.  Once  in  the  soft  sand  of  the  creek  bed  they 
would  never  turn  back  to  the  heights,  for  their 
feet  were  worn  to  the  quick.  But  it  had  been  a 
hard  race — even  Wa-ha-lote  was  slowing  down, 
and  Dixie  Lee  was  nowhere  in  sight. 

A  sudden  doubt  assailed  Bowles,  and  he  tugged 
sharply  at  the  bit;  he  pulled  down  to  a  walk  and 
looked  behind;  then,  as  he  saw  no  sign,  he  stopped 
short  and  let  the  cattle  go.  For  a  tense  minute 
he  listened  while  Wa-ha-lote  puffed  like  a  steam 
boat;  then,  with  a  grave  look  on  his  face,  he 
turned  and  rode  back  up  the  hill. 

"O  Miss  Lee!"  he  shouted.    "Dixie!" 

And  a  thin  answer  came  from  the  slope  above. 

"Catch  my  horse!"  it  said.  "He's  down  in  the 
gulch!" 

Bowles  stared  about  and  caught  sight  of  the 
red  roan's  hide  as  he  stood  behind  some  trees; 
[220] 


THE  ROUGH-RIDERS 

then,  with  his  rope  about  its  neck,  he  went  spur 
ring  up  the  hill. 

Dixie  Lee  was  lying  very  awkwardly  among 
the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  a  scrubby  juniper,  and  at 
the  first  glance  Bowles  knew  she  was  hurt.  Not 
only  was  her  hat  gone  and  her  stout  skirt  ripped 
and  torn,  but  her  face  was  very  pale  and  her  lips 
drawn  tight  together. 

"Horse  fell  with  me,"  she  said,  greeting  him 
with  a  fleeting  smile;  "hurt  my  knee  right  bad. 
First  time  I've  known  him  to  do  that— say,  help 
me  out  of  these  rocks." 

Very  tenderly  Bowles  reached  down  and  raised 
her  to  her  feet;  then,  with  one  arm  about  his 
neck,  she  tried  to  hobble  away,  but  at  the  second 
hop  she  paused. 

"Nope — hurts  too  bad,"  she  said;  put  me 
down." 

But  Bowles  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  took 
her  up  in  his  strong  young  arms  and  carried  her 
down  the  hill.  He  even  wished  it  were  farther, 
but  she  spied  a  bed  of  leaves  under  a  cedar  and 
ordered  him  to  put  her  there.  Then  she  looked 
up  at  him  curiously  and  for  a  while  lay  very  still. 

"What  you  got  there?"  she  inquired,  as  he 
came  back  holding  his  hat,  and  Bowles  showed 
her  a  crownful  of  water  that  he  had  brought  from 
a  pool  in  the  gulch. 

[221] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

aAh!"  sighed  Dixie,  and  drank  out  of  it  with 
out  scruple,  long  and  deep.  "Say,  that's  good," 
she  said;  "now  pour  some  on  my  hands — they're 
all  scratched  up."  He  did  that  too,  and  loaned 
her  his  neck  handkerchief  to  sop  up  the  last  of 
the  wet. 

"Well,  it's  a  wonder  you  wouldn't  ask  a  few 
questions,"  she  observed  at  length,  bathing  her 
grimy  face  with  the  handkerchief.  "  'How  did  it 
happen?'  or  'How're  you  feeling?'  or  something 
like  that!" 

She  smiled  naturally  at  him  now,  fluffing  out 
her  dark  hair  that  hung  like  an  Indian's  in  heavy 
braids;  and  Bowies'  face  lighted  up  and  then 
flushed  a  rosy  red. 

"I  see  you  are  feeling  better,"  he  said,  sitting 
down  off  to  one  side,  and  decorously  regarding 
his  wet  hat,  "so  how  did  it  happen?" 

"Well,"  began  Dixie,  ruefully  inspecting  her 
torn  hands,  "all  I  can  remember  is  feeling  my 
horse  going  down  and  jerking  my  feet  out  of  the 
stirrups — then  I  fetched  up  in  that  juniper.  I 
scrambled  out  the  minute  I  struck — afraid  old 
Rufus  would  fall  on  me — and  that's  where  I  hurt 
my  knee — I  bumped  it  against  a  rock." 

She  felt  the  injured  limb  over  carefully  and 
shook  her  head. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  travel  on  that  for  a  while," 
[222] 


THE  ROUGH-RIDERS 

she  said.  "So  get  me  your  coat  to  put  under  it 
and  prop  it  up,  and  we'll  talk  about  something 
pleasant.  It'll  be  all  right,  I  reckon,  after  I  rest 
a  while,  but  that  fall  certainly  jarred  me  up. 

"Say,"  she  observed,  as  Bowles  came  back 
with  his  coat,  "that  was  pretty  good,  wasn't  it, 
what  I  was  telling  you  the  other  day — about 
nursing  you  back  to  health  and  strength.  Looks 
like  you're  the  nurse,  the  way  it  turns  out.  But 
you're  going  to  make  a  good  one,"  she  went  on, 
as  he  tucked  the  coat  under  her  knee;  "I  can  see 
that.  Now,  most  people,  when  you  get  a  hurt,  or 
a  fall,  or  something,  they  come  rushing  up  to 
where  you're  making  faces  and  ask  a  lot  of  fool 
ish  questions — 'Are  you  hurt?'  and  'Did  you  fall?' 
and  all  that,  until  you  want  to  kill  'em.  But  you 
haven't  hardly  said  a  word." 

"No,"  said  Bowles,  blushing  and  looking  away. 
"I'm  awfully  sorry  you  fell — hope  I  didn't  make 
you.  Is  there  anything  more  I  can  do?" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  she  assured  him.  "We 
all  take  a  fall  once  in  a  while.  I  feel  kind  of 
weak  and  trifling  right  now — but  don't  go !  No, 
I  want  you  here  for  company!" 

Bowles  had  stood  up  on  a  pretext  of  looking 
after  the  horses,  but  Dixie  was  firm. 

"No,  you  stay,"  she  said,  as  he  explained  that 
she  might  wish  to  be  alone.  "You're  out  West 
[223] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

now,  Bowles,  and  you  remember  what  Hardy 
Atkins  told  you — 'if  a  lady  asks  you  to  take  a 
letter,  take  it!9  Of  course,  that  was  none  of 
Hardy's  business,  but  that's  the  rule  out  here, 
and  I  want  you  to  come  back  and  sit  down. 
No,  not  away  over  there — I  want  you  right  up 
close!" 

Bowles  came  back  as  readily  as  a  dog,  but  he 
did  not  sit  very  close.  For  some  reason  unknown 
to  himself  he  assumed  that  she  would  be  em 
barrassed,  not  only  by  their  isolated  position  but 
by  the  intimacies  which  had  arisen  between  them. 
Moved  by  a  strong  and  humane  purpose,  he  had 
gathered  her  up  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  down 
the  hill ;  but  hardly  had  he  felt  her  arm  about  his 
neck,  her  breath  against  his  cheek,  and  her  heart 
against  his  breast,  when  the  dimensions  of  his 
world  had  suddenly  narrowed  down,  and  there 
was  only  Dixie  Lee  and  him.  And  now  he  was 
still  dazed  and  breathless,  afraid  of  himself,  and 
not  trusting  in  his  strength — and  yet  he  would 
do  anything  to  please  her. 

"Come  on  over  here,"  she  coaxed,  patting  the 
leaves  by  her  side,  and  Bowles  came  as  near  as  he 
dared.  "Now  tell  me  some  stories,"  she  said, 
settling  back  and  closing  her  eyes.  "Ah,  this  will 
be  fine — tell  me  something  interesting,  so  I  can 
forget  that  knee.  It  sure  aches — when  I  think 
[224] 


THE  ROUGH-RIDERS 

about  it — but  I  believe  there's  something  in  mind- 
cure.  Go  ahead  and  talk.  Where'd  you  learn  to 
ride  so  well?" 

"Oh,  that?"  beamed  Bowles.  "Do  you  think 
I  can  ride?  Well,  I'm  not  so  bad,  over  the  rocks, 
you  know.  I  used  to  ride  to  the  hounds.  We 
chased  foxes  through  the  woods,  leaping  stone 
walls  and  five-bar  gates  and  all  that,  and,  really, 
I  used  to  enjoy  it.  Nothing  like  cow-punching, 
of  course,  but  great  sport  all  the  same.  I  remem 
ber  once  we  were  out  at  Clarendon " 

He  fell  into  the  details  of  a  fox  hunt — the  first 
time  he  had  spoken  of  his  past  life — and  Dixie 
was  careful  not  to  interrupt  him.  Then  he  told 
of  his  life  in  the  military  school,  where  they 
taught  boys  the  cavalryman's  craft,  and  Dixie 
lay  quiet  and  listened.  If  her  knee  hurt  she  did 
not  know  it,  for  she  was  piecing  out  his  career. 
School,  college,  country  club,  one  after  the  other 
he  alluded  to  them,  but  even  in  his  boyish  en 
thusiasm  he  was  careful  to  mention  no  names; 
and  as  he  wandered  on  with  his  stories  Dixie  Lee 
wondered  who  he  was.  Certainly  no  inconsider 
able  man  in  his  own  country,  and  yet  here  he  was, 
an  ordinary  hired  hand,  punching  cows  for  forty- 
five  a  month.  But  why?  And  if  he  had  followed 
her  to  the  end  of  the  world  to  win  her  heart,  why 
did  he  not  talk  of  love  to  her,  now  that  they  were 
[225] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

there  together?  And  when  he  had  taken  her  in  his 
arms,  when  he  had  carried  her  under  the  tree  and 
pulled  off  her  boot  and  tucked  his  coat  under  her 
knee,  why  had  there  been  no  caress,  no  look,  no 
unnecessary  attentions  to  show  that  he  really 
cared?  Dixie  May  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed 
out  at  him  through  half-closed  lashes,  and  some 
how  she  liked  him  better — he  seemed  to  be 
different  from  the  rest. 

"Mr.  Bowles,"  she  said  at  last,  "you're  an 
awfully  interesting  man,  but  there  are  some  things 
I  can't  understand.  There's  something  mysteri 
ous  about  you.  I  know  you  must  be  all  right, 
because  I  met  you  at  Mrs.  Melvine's,  but  at  the 
same  time  you're  hiding  out  like  an  ordinary 
horse-stealing  Texican.  What  are  you  up  to, 
anyway?" 

"Why,  I  thought  you  knew  all  about  that,"  ex 
plained  Bowles,  the  old  baffling  smile  coming  back 
into  his  eyes.  "Don't  you  remember,  I  told  you 
about  it  on  the  train?" 

"Yes,  I  remember,  all  right,"  answered  Dixie. 
"But  you  didn't  tell  me  very  much — and  then  you 
told  me  different  at  Chula  Vista.  I  thought  I 
had  a  line  on  you  once,  but  you're  too  deep  for 
me.  What's  this  I  hear  about  a  girl?" 

"A  girl?"  repeated  Bowles,  with  questioning 
gravity.  "Why,  what  do  you  mean?  What  did 
you  hear?" 

[226] 


THE  ROUGH-RIDERS 

"A  girl  back  in  New  York,"  continued  Dixie, 
glancing  at  him  shrewdly  as  she  hazarded  a 
guess — and  as  she  gazed  he  flushed  and  looked 
away. 

"Whatever  you  have  heard,"  he  said  at  last, 
"I  have  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of — would  you 
like  me  to  get  you  some  water  ?" 

"Aw,  Mr.  Bowles,"  cried  Dixie  reproachfully, 
"are  you  trying  to  side-step  me  on  this?" 

"No,  indeed!"  replied  Bowles,  settling  back 
with  masterful  calm.  "What  is  it  you  have 
heard — and  what  would  you  like  to  know?'1 

He  paused  and  regarded  her  expectantly,  and 
Dixie  saw  that  she  was  called.  A  shadow  passed 
over  her  face;  a  shadow  of  annoyance,  and  of 
suspicion,  perhaps,  as  well;  but  she  felt  the  rebuke 
of  his  frankness  and  pursued  her  inquiry  no 
further. 

"Well,  perhaps  you  are  right,"  she  said,  as  if 
answering  an  unspoken  reproof.  "It  was  noth 
ing  to  your  discredit,  Mr.  Bowles;  and  I  am  sure 
it  is  none  of  my  business.  I  guess  I'm  kind  of 
spoiled  out  here — I  get  to  joshing  with  these  cow 
boys  until  I  don't  know  anything  else.  I  believe 
I  would  like  that  drink." 

Bowles  leaped  up  promptly  at  the  word  and 
came  back  with  his  new  hat  full  of  water.     He 
held  it  for  her  to  drink,  and  as  she  finished  and 
looked  up  she  saw  that  his  eyes  were  troubled. 
[227] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  cried  impulsively,  "have  I 
made  you  any  trouble?  You've  been  so  good 
to  me  here — what  have  I  gone  and  done  now?" 

"Oh,  it's  not  you  at  all,"  he  assured  her,  and 
then  his  voice  broke  and  he  faltered.  "But  have 
you  really  heard  from  New  York?" 

"Why,  no,  Mr.  Bowles,"  soothed  Dixie,  lay 
ing  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Not  a  word — I  don't 
know  anything  about  you — I  was  only  making 
it  up." 

"Oh!"  said  Bowles,  and  drew  his  arm  away. 
He  looked  out  at  the  horses  for  a  moment, 
poured  the  water  out  of  his  hat,  and  turned  back, 
his  old  smiling  self. 

"How  is  your  knee  now?"  he  inquired  kindly. 
"Do  you  think  you  can  ride?  I  suppose  we  ought 
to  be  going  pretty  soon." 

Dixie  glanced  over  at  him  and  her  heart  sank — 
she  had  observed  these  sudden  changes  in  Bowles 
before,  and  even  his  boyish  smile  could  not  lighten 
the  veiled  rebuke.  When  Bowles  had  thoughts 
that  were  anti-social  he  was  always  unusually 
kind,  and  his  way  of  expressing  disapproval  was 
to  tactfully  change  the  subject.  And  now  he  was 
talking  of  going!  Dixie  scowled  and  felt  of  her 
knee,  and  rose  stiffly  to  her  feet. 

"Well,  if  you're  in  such  a  hurry,"  she  sulked; 
but  Bowles  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant. 
[228] 


THE  ROUGH-RIDERS 

"Oh,  my  dear  Miss  Lee!"  he  cried,  catching 
her  as  she  poised  for  a  limp.  "Please  don't  do 
that !  Let  me  carry  you,  when  the  time  comes,  but 
we  will  rest  as  long  as  you  please." 

He  passed  a  compelling  arm  about  her  and 
lowered  her  gently  to  her  place ;  then  he  sat  down 
beside  her,  and  breathed  hard  as  he  set  her  free. 

"Really,"  he  murmured,  "we  don't  seem  to  un 
derstand  each  other  very  well,  Miss  Lee!" 

"That's  because  neither  one  of  us  is  telling 
the  truth!"  observed  Dixie  with  a  certain  bitter 
ness. 

They  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then 
she  turned  about  and  looked  him  squarely  in  the 
eye. 

"Mr.  Bowles,"  she  said,  in  measured  tones, 
"who  are  you,  anyway?" 

"Who — me?"  parried  Bowles,  lapsing  into  the 
vernacular.  "Why,  you  know  me!  I'm  Bowles, 
the  gentleman  you  met  at  Mrs.  Melvine's." 

"There!  You  see?"  commented  Dixie. 
"You're  afraid  to  tell  your  own  name,  and 
I'm " 

"Yes?"  questioned  Bowles. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  I'm  afraid  of,"  she 
went  on  bluntly,  "but  I've  got  something  on  my 
mind." 

"Why,  surely,"  began  Bowles,  apprehensively, 
[229] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"I — I  hope  I  haven't  given  offense  in  any  way. 
You  were  hurt,  you  know — and  I  was  a  little  ex 
cited — and ' ' 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Dixie  heartily. 
"You're  a  perfect  gentleman — I  always  knew 
that.  But  you  haven't  had  much  to  do  with 
women,  have  you,  Mr.  Bowles?" 

Her  voice  trailed  off  a  little  at  the  close,  and 
Bowles  looked  up  at  her  mystified.  He  thought 
quickly,  wondering  where  she  was  leading  him, 
and  decided  to  tell  the  truth. 

"Why,  no,  Miss  Lee,"  he  stammered,  "I  sup 
pose  not.  I  hope  I  haven't " 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  cried  Dixie.  "I  don't  mean 
that.  I  was  just  thinking — well,  I  mustn't  take  ad 
vantage  of  you,  then." 

She  favored  him  with  one  of  her  sudden,  tan 
talizing  smiles,  and  his  brain  whirled  as  he  looked 
away. 

"No,"  he  muttered,  faking  a  deep  breath;  "it 
wouldn't  be  fair,  you  know." 

"Well,  go  and  cinch  up  my  horse,  then,"  she 
said,  "and  I'll  make  an  exception  of  you." 

He  looked  up  at  her  suddenly,  startled  by  the 
way  she  spoke,  and  went  to  do  her  will. 

"Now,"  he  announced,  when  the  horse  was 
ready,  "shall  I  help  you  while  you  mount?" 

"Why,  yes,"  she  said,  "if  you  think  it's  safe!" 

[230] 


THE  ROUGH-RIDERS 

And  then  he  gathered  her  into  his  arms. 

"I'll  be  careful,"  he  said.  But  the  devil 
tempted  him — and  Dixie  forgot  and  smiled. 

"Never  mind,"  she  whispered,  as  he  lifted  her 
to  the  saddle;  "that  was  to  pay  you  for  being 


nurse." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  COMMON  BRAWL 

THERE  is  a  madness  which  comes  to  certain 
people  at  certain  times  and  makes  them  for 
get  the  whole  world.  In  such  a  moment  Bowles 
had  stolen  a  kiss — for  the  first  time  in  his  life — 
and  Dixie  Lee  had  forgiven  him.  He  had  stolen 
it  quickly,  and  she  had  forgiven  him  quickly,  and 
then  they  had  ridden  on  together  without  daring 
so  much  as  a  glance.  That  kiss  had  meant  a  great 
deal  to  both  of  them,  and  they  needed  time  to 
think.  So  they  rode  down  to  the  hold-up  herd  in 
silence  and  parted  without  a  word.. 

Dixie  went  on  to  camp,  to  rest  and  care  for  her 
hurts;  and  Bowles,  with  a  sad  and  preoccu 
pied  smile,  stayed  by  to  help  with  the  herd.  But 
the  jealous  eyes  of  hate  are  quick  to  read  such 
smiles,  and  as  Bowles  rode  along  on  the  swing 
he  was  suddenly  startled  out  of  his  dreams. 
Hardy  Atkins  went  out  of  his  way  to  ride  past 
him,  and  as  he  spurred  his  horse  in  against  his 
stirrup  he  hissed : 

"You  leave  my  girl  alone,  you  blankety-blank!" 
and  went  muttering  on  his  way. 
[232] 


A  COMMON  BRAWL 

This  roused  Bowles  from  his  reverie,  and  he 
began  to  think.  If  Hardy  Atkins  had  noticed  a 
change,  there  were  others  who  would  do  the  same. 
How  Atkins  had  guessed,  or  what  the  clue  had 
been,  he  could  not  tell;  but,  having  been  carefully 
brought  up,  Bowles  knew  exactly  what  he  ought 
to  do.  Before  the  first  rumor  had  run  its  course 
it  was  his  duty  as  a  gentleman  to  go  to  Henry 
Lee  and  make  a  report  of  the  facts;  then,  if  any 
exaggerated  statements  came  to  his  ears  later, 
Mr.  Lee  would  know  that  his  conduct  had  been 
honorable  and  that  green-eyed  envy  was  raising 
its  hateful  head.  So,  without  more  ado,  he  rode 
up  to  the  point  of  the  herd  and  saluted  the  austere 
boss. 

"Mr.  Lee,"  he  said,  as  that  gentleman  turned 
upon  him  sharply,  "I  am  sorry,  but  Miss  Lee  had 
a  very  bad  fall  this  morning  and  she  has  gone 
ahead  to  camp." 

"Yes,  I  saw  her,"  returned  the  boss.  "What 
about  it?" 

"Well — I  was  afraid  she  might  not  mention  it 
to  you,  or  might  minimize  her  hurts,  but  as  a  mat 
ter  of  fact  she  fell  on  a  steep  hill,  and  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  a  juniper  tree  she  might  have  been  seri 
ously  injured.  As  it  is,  her  knee  gave  her  quite 
a  lot  of  trouble  and  I  had  to  help  her  to  mount." 

"Oh!"  commented  Henry  Lee,  and  glanced  at 
[233] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

him  again.  "Well,  what  is  it?"  he  inquired,  as 
Bowles  still  rode  at  his  side. 

"Excuse  me,"  stammered  Bowles,  holding  reso 
lutely  to  his  task,  "I  thought  perhaps  you  might 
want  to  ride  ahead  and  help  her  off  her  horse." 

For  a  moment  the  boss  looked  him  over,  then 
he  grunted  and  bowed  quite  formally. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Mr.  Bowles,"  he  said.  "Will 
you  call  Hardy  to  take  my  place?" 

He  waited  until  Hardy  Atkins  had  started,  and 
then  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  when  the  cowboys 
reached  camp  he  was  busy  about  the  tent.  The 
next  day  Dixie  did  not  ride  out  on  the  round-up, 
and  when  they  came  back  she  was  gone.  "Back 
to  the  home  ranch,"  the  cook  reported,  and  he 
added  that  she  was  not  very  lame;  but  the  cow- 
punchers  glared  at  Bowles  as  if  he  had  crippled 
her  for  life.  And  not  only  that,  but  as  if  he  had 
done  it  on  purpose. 

"These  blankety-blank  tenderfeet!"  com 
mented  Hardy  Atkins  by  the  fire.  "They  can 
make  an  outfit  more  trouble  than  a  bunch  of 
Apache  Indians.  I  cain't  stand  'em — it's  onlucky 
to  have  'em  around." 

"I'd  rather  be  short-handed,  any  time,"  ob 
served  Buck  Buchanan  sagely. 

"Now,  there's  Dix,"  continued  Hardy,  with  a 
vindictive  glance  at  Bowles;  "worth  any  two  men 

[234] 


A  COMMON  BRAWL 

in  the  outfit — ride  anywhere — goes  out  with  this 
tenderfoot  and  comes  within  an  ace  of  gittin' 
killed.  She  raced  with  me,  rode  with  Jack  and 
Slim,  and  left  the  Straw  a  mile — the  Hinglishman 
comes  in  behind  her,  crowds  her  outer  the  trail, 
and  if  it  hadn't  been  fer  that  juniper  she'd  a-landed 
in  them  rocks." 

Bowles  looked  up  scornfully  from  his  place 
and  said  nothing,  but  Brigham  appeared  for  the 
defense. 

"Aw,  what  do  you  know  about  it?"  he  growled. 
"You  wasn't  there.  Who  told  you  he  crowded 
her  out  of  the  trail?" 

"Well,  he  says  so  himse'f !"  protested  Atkins, 
pointing  an  accusing  finger  at  Bowles.  "Didn't 
he  come  into  camp  and  tell  all  about  it?  I  be 
lieve  that  he  was  tryin'  to  do  it  so  he  could  git  a 
chance  to " 

"Mr.  Atkins,"  said  Bowles,  rising  to  his  feet 
and  speaking  tremulously,  "I  shall  have  to 
ask " 

But  that  was  as  far  as  he  got.  With  a  tiger- 
like  spring  the  ex-twister  was  upon  him,  and  be 
fore  he  could  raise  his  hands  he  struck  him  full 
in  the  face. 

"You  will  talk  about  my  gal,  will  ye?"  he 
shouted,  as  Bowles  went  down  at  the  blow. 
"Stand  up  hyer,  you  white-livered  Hinglish- 
[235] 


.       BAT  WING  BOWLES 

man;    I'll   learn  you   to   butt   in   on   my   game!" 

"Here!  What're  you  tryin'  to  do?"  demanded 
Brigham,  leaping  up  hastily  and  confronting  his 
old-time  enemy.  "You  touch  that  boy  again,  and 
I'll  slap  yore  dirty  face  off!" 

"Well,  he's  been  gittin'  too  important  around 
hyer!"  cried  Atkins  noisily.  "And  he's  been  talk- 
in'  about  my  gal — I  won't  take  that  from  no 
man!" 

"Huh!"  sneered  Brigham,  drawing  closer  and 
clenching  his  hands.  "You're  mighty  quick  to  hit 
a  man  when  he  ain't  lookin' — why  don't  you  take 
a  man  of  yore  size  now  and  hit  me?" 

"I  ain't  got  no  quarrel  with  you !"  raved  Hardy 
Atkins.  "That's  the  feller  I'm  after — he's  been 
talkin'  about  my  gal!" 

"He  has  not!"  replied  Brigham  deliberately. 
"He  never  talked  about  no  gal,  and  I'll  whip  the 
man  that  says  so — are  you  bad  hurt,  pardner?" 

He  knelt  by  the  side  of  the  prostrate  Bowles, 
who  opened  his  eyes  and  stared.  Then  he  looked 
about  him  and  raised  one  hand  to  his  cheek,  which 
was  bruised  and  beginning  to  swell. 

"I'll  learn  you  to  cut  me  out!"  taunted  Hardy 
Atkins,  shaking  his  fist  and  doing  a  war-dance. 
"I'll  make  you  hard  to  ketch  if  you  try  to  butt  in 
on  me!" 

"Aw,  shut  up!"  snarled  Brigham,  lifting  his 
partner  up.  "You're  brave  when  a  man  ain't 

[236] 


A  COMMON  BRAWL 

lookin',  ain't  ye?  Here,  ketch  hold  of  me,  pard- 
ner,  and  I'll  take  you  to  yore  bed." 

Bowles  dropped  down  on  his  blankets,  still 
nursing  his  aching  head;  but  in  the  morning  he 
rose  up  with  a  purposeful  look  in  his  eye.  He 
was  a  long  way  from  New  York  and  the  higher 
life  now,  and  that  one  treacherous  blow  had 
roused  his  fighting  blood.  For  the  courage  which 
prompts  a  man  to  strike  in  the  dark,  he  had  little 
if  any  respect,  and  he  went  straight  over  to  Hardy 
Atkins  the  moment  he  saw  him  alone. 

"Mr.  Atkins,"  he  said,  "you  hit  me  when  I 
wasn't  looking  last  night.  Next  time  you  won't 
find  me  so  easy — but  be  so  good  as  to  leave  Miss 
Lee's  name  out  of  this." 

"Oho!"  taunted  the  cow-puncher,  straighten 
ing  up  and  regarding  him  with  a  grin.  "So  you 
want  some  more,  hey?  That  crack  on  the  jaw 
didn't  satisfy  you.  What's  the  matter  with  yore 
face  this  mawnin'?" 

"Never  you  mind  about  my  face,"  returned 
Bowles  warmly.  "If  you  are  so  low  as  to  be 
proud  of  a  trick  like  that,  you  are  a  coward,  and 
no  gentleman,  and — put  up  your  hands !" 

He  squared  off  as  he  spoke,  falling  back  upon 
his  right  foot  and  presenting  a  long,  menacing 
left;  but  Hardy  Atkins  only  laughed  and  loosened 
his  pistol. 

"Aw,  go  on  away,"  he  said.     "D'ye  think  I 

[237] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

want  to  box  with  you  ?  No,  if  you  git  into  a  fight 
with  me  you're  liable  to  stop  'most  anythin' — I'll 
hit  you  over  the  coco  with  this!" 

He  laid  his  hand  on  the  heavy  Colt's  which  he 
always  wore  in  his  shaps,  and  gazed  upon 
Bowles  insolently. 

"You  can't  run  no  blazer  over  me,  Mr.  Willie- 
boy,"  he  went  on,  as  Bowles  put  down  his  hands. 
"You're  out  West  now,  where  everythin'  goes. 
If  you'd  happen  to  whip  me  in  a  fist-fight  I'd  git 
my  gun  and  shoot  you,  so  keep  yore  mouth  shut 
unless  you  want  to  go  the  limit.  And  while  we're 
talkinY'  he  drawled,  "I  think  you  might  as  well 
drift — it's  goin'  to  be  mighty  onhealthy  around 
hyer  if  I  ketch  you  with  Dixie  again." 

"I  asked  you  to  leave  her  name  out  of  this," 
suggested  Bowles,  trying  bravely  to  keep  his  voice 
from  getting  thin.  "If  you've  got  a  quarrel  with 
me,  well  and  good,  but  certainly  no  gentle 
man " 

"Aw,  go  on  away  from  me,"  sneered  Hardy 
Atkins,  waving  him  wearily  aside.  "You  seem  to 
think  you're  the  only  gentleman  in  the  outfit !  Go 
chase  yoreself — you  make  me  tired!" 

The  sight  of  grinning  faces  about  the  corral  re 
called  Bowles  to  the  presence  of  an  audience  and, 
choking  with  anger  and  chagrin,  he  went  off  to 
saddle  his  horse.  Ever  since  his  arrival  Hardy 

[238] 


A  COMMON  BRAWL 

Atkins  had  ignored  him,  glancing  at  him  furtively 
or  gazing  past  him  with  supercilious  scorn. 
Now  for  the  first  time  they  had  met  as  man 
to  man,  and  in  that  brief  minute  the  ex-twister 
had  shown  his  true  colors.  He  was  a  man  of 
treachery  and  violence,  and  proud  of  it.  He  did 
not  pretend  to  fair  play  nor  subscribe  to  the  rules 
of  the  game.  He  did  not  even  claim  to  be  a 
gentleman!  There  was  the  crux,  and  Bowles  la 
bored  in  his  mind  to  find  the  key.  How  could  he 
compete — in  either  love  or  war — with  a  man  who 
was  not  a  gentleman? 

It  was  Brigham  who  gave  the  answer,  and  to 
him  it  was  perfectly  simple. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  they  rode  back  together 
from  the  circle,  "he's  warned  you  out  of  camp — 
what  ye  goin'  to  do  about  it?" 

"Why,  what  can  I  do?"  faltered  Bowles, 
whose  soul  was  darkened  with  troubles. 

"Fight  or  git  out,"  replied  Brigham  briefly. 

"But  he  won't  fight  fair!"  cried  Bowles.  "He 
hits  me  when  I'm  not  looking;  then  when  I  offer  to 
fight  him  with  my  hands  he  threatens  me  with  a 
pistol.  What  can  a  man  do  ?" 

"Threaten  'im  with  yourn!"  returned  Brigham. 
"He  won't  shoot — he's  one  of  the  worst  four- 
flushers  in  Arizona!     He's  jest  runnin'  it  over 
you  because  he  thinks  you're  a  tenderfoot." 
[239] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"How  do  you  know  he  won't  shoot?"  inquired 
Bowles,  to  whom  the  whole  proposition  was  in  the 
nature  of  an  enigma.  "What  does  he  carry  that 
pistol  for,  then?" 

"Jest  to  look  ba-ad,"  sneered  Brigham,  "and 
throw  a  big  scare  into  strangers.  /  ain't  got  no 
six-shooter,  and  he  don't  run  it  over  me,  does  he? 
He's  afraid  to  shoot,  that's  what's  the  matter — 
he  knows  very  well  the  Rangers  would  be  on  his 
neck  before  he  could  cross  the  line.  Don't  you 
let  these  Texicans  buffalo  you,  boy — the  only  time 
they're  dangerous  is  when  they're  on  a  drunk." 

"Then  you  mean,"  began  Bowles  hopefully, 
"if  I'd  struck  him  this  morning  he  wouldn't  have 
used  his  gun?" 

"Well,"  admitted  Brig,  "he  might've  drawed 
it — and  if  you'd  whipped  him  he  might've  taken 
a  shot  at  you.  But  you  got  a  gun  too,  ain't  you?" 

"Ye-es,"  acknowledged  Bowles;  "but  I  don't 
want  to  kill  a  man.  I  wouldn't  like  to  shoot  him 
with  it." 

"Well,  then,  for  Gawd's  sake,  take  it  off!" 
roared  Brigham.  "If  he'd  shot  you  this  mornin' 
he  could  a  got  off  f er  self-defense !  Turn  it  over 
to  the  boss  and  tell  him  you  don't  want  no  trou 
ble — then  if  Hardy  shoots  you  he'll  swing  fer  it!" 

"But  how  about  me?"  queried  Bowles. 

"You're  twice  as  likely  to  git  shot  anyway," 
[240] 


A  COMMON  BRAWL 

persisted  Brig,  "with  a  gun  on  you.  If  you  got  to 
pack  a  gun,  leave  it  in  yore  bed,  where  you  can 
git  it  if  you  want  it;  but  if  the  other  feller  sees 
you're  heeled,  and  he's  got  a  gun,  it  makes  him 
nervous,  and  if  you  make  a  sudden  move  he  plugs 
you.  But  if  you  ain't  armed  he  don't  dare  to — 
they're  awful  strict  out  here,  and  these  Rangers 
are  the  limit.  Hardy  won't  shoot — you  ain't 
afraid  of  'im,  are  you?" 

"No-o,"  said  Bowles;  "not  if  he'd  fight  fair." 

"D'ye  think  you  could  whip  'im?"  demanded 
Brigham  eagerly. 

"I  can  try,"  responded  Bowles  grimly. 

"That's  the  talk!"  cheered  Brigham,  leaning 
over  to  whack  him  on  the  back.  "Stand  up  to  'im ! 
He's  nothin'  but  a  big  bluff  I" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  grumbled  Bowles, 
with  the  affair  of  the  morning  still  fresh  in  mind; 
"I'm  afraid  he'll  hit  me  with  his  gun." 

"Well,  here,  we'll  fix  that,"  said  Brig,  hastily 
stripping  the  heavy  quirt  from  his  wrist.  "You 
turn  yore  pistol  over  to  the  boss  and  take  this 
loaded  quirt — then  if  Hardy  offers  to  club  you 
wTith  his  gun  you  knock  his  eye  out  with  this!" 

He  made  a  vicious  pass  into  the  air  with  the 
bludgeon-like  handle,  holding  the  quirt  by  the 
lash,  and  passed  it  over  to  Bowles. 

"Now   you're   heeled!"    he   said   approvingly. 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"That's  worse'n  a  gun,  any  time,  and  you  kin 
hit  'im  as  hard  as  you  please.  Jest  hang  that  on 
yore  wrist,  where  it'll  be  handy,  and  turn  that 
cussed  six-shooter  in." 

The  matter  was  still  a  little  mixed  in  Bowies' 
mind,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  treading  upon  new 
and  dangerous  ground,  but  his  evil  passions  were 
still  afoot  and  he  longed  gloomily  for  his  re 
venge.  So  when  they  got  into  camp  that  evening 
he  went  over  to  Henry  Lee's  tent,  with  Brigham 
to  act  as  his  witness. 

"Mr.  Lee,"  he  said,  speaking  according  to  in 
structions,  "I've  had  a  little  difficulty  with  one  of 
the  boys,  and  I'd  like  to  turn  in  my  gun.  I  don't 
want  to  have  any  trouble." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Bowles,"  answered  the  boss 
very  quietly.  ujust  throw  it  on  my  bed.  What's 
the  matter,  Brig?" 

"Oh,  nothin'  much,"  replied  Brigham.  "You 
saw  it  yorese'f — last  night." 

"Um,"  assented  Henry  Lee,  glancing  for  a  mo 
ment  at  Bowies'  skinned  cheek.  "Well,  we  don't 
want  to  have  any  racket  now,  boys — not  while 
we've  got  these  wild  cattle  on  our  hands — and  I'm 
much  obliged.  Hope  you  don't  have  any  more 
trouble,  Mr.  Bowles." 

He  bowed  them  out  of  the  tent  without  any 
more  words,  and  they  proceeded  back  to  the  camp. 

[242] 


A  COMMON  BRAWL 

A  significant  smile  went  the  rounds  as  Bowles 
came  back  from  the  tent,  but  in  the  morning  he 
went  to  the  corral  as  usual. 

"I  thought  you'd  got  yore  time,"  ventured 
Buck  Buchanan,  as  Bowles  began  to  saddle  up; 
and  as  the  word  passed  around  that  he  had  not, 
Hardy  Atkins  rode  over  to  inquire. 

"What's  this  I  hear?"  he  said.  "I  thought  you 
was  goin'  to  quit." 

"Then  you  were  mistaken,  Mr.  Atkins,"  an 
swered  Bowles  politely.  "I  am  not." 

"Then  what  did  you  see  the  boss  fer?  Makin' 
some  kick  about  me?" 

"Your  name  was  not  mentioned,  Mr.  Atkins," 
replied  Bowles,  still  politely.  "I  simply  turned 
over  my  gun  to  Mr.  Lee  and  told  him  I'd  had 
some  trouble." 

"Well,  it's  nothin'  to  what  you  will  have!" 
scowled  the  ex-twister  hatefully.  "I  can  tell  you 
that !  And  I  give  you  till  night  to  pull.  If  you 
don't " 

He  paused  with  meaning  emphasis  and  turned 
his  horse  to  go,  but  Henry  Lee  had  been  watching 
him  from  a  distance  and  now  he  came  spurring  in. 

"Hardy,"  he  said,  "I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  leave 
Bowles  strictly  alone.  He's  turned  his  gun  in  to 
me  and  is  tending  to  his  own  business,  so  don't 
let  me  speak  to  you  again.  D'ye  understand?" 

[243] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Yes,  sir!"  mumbled  the  cow-puncher,  fumb 
ling  sullenly  with  his  saddle-strings;  but  his  mind 
was  not  turned  from  his  purpose,  as  Bowles  found 
out  that  same  night. 

They  were  swinging  around  toward  the  south 
and  west,  raking  the  last  barren  ridges  before  they 
started  the  day-herd  for  home ;  and  in  the  evening 
they  camped  in  the  open  and  threw  their  beds 
down  anywhere.  After  a  hasty  supper  by  the  fire, 
Bowles  spread  out  his  blankets,  coiled  up  his  bed- 
rope,  and  rode  forth  to  stand  the  first  guard.  For 
Bowles  was  a  top  hand  now,  whatever  his  enemy 
might  say,  and  he  had  his  choice  of  guards.  It 
was  very  dark  when  he  came  in  at  ten-thirty,  and 
he  was  too  sleepy  to  notice  the  change,  but  after 
he  had  slipped  under  his  tarpaulin  he  felt  some 
thing  through  the  bed.  It  was  his  bed-rope, 
stretched  carelessly  across  the  middle,  from  side 
to  side,  and  he  grumbled  for  a  moment  to  himself 
as  he  squirmed  down  where  it  would  not  hurt  him. 
Then  he  went  to  sleep. 

After  a  man  has  ridden  hard  all  day  and  stood 
his  guard  at  night,  a  little  thing  like  a  rope  under 
his  bed  is  not  likely  to  disturb  his  dreams — the 
way  the  pea  did  the  soft-sleeping  True  Princess — 
but  with  this  particular  rope  it  was  different. 
Hardy  Atkins  had  stretched  it  there  with  malice 
aforethought;  and  when,  later  in  the  night,  he 
[244] 


A  COMMON  BRAWL 

saddled  his  snorting  night  horse  and  prepared  to 
ride  out  to  the  herd,  he  tied  the  two  ends  into  a 
loop  and  silently  stepped  away  with  the  slack. 
Then  he  took  a  turn  around  the  horn,  put  spurs 
to  his  horse,  and  went  plunging  out  into  the  night. 

A  sudden  yank  almost  snapped  Bowles  in  two 
in  the  middle;  he  woke  up  clutching,  to  find  him 
self  side-swiping  the  earth;  then  an  agonizing 
series  of  bumps  and  jolts  followed,  and  he 
fetched  up  against  a  juniper  with  a  jar  that 
rattled  his  teeth.  There  was  a  strain,  a  snap, 
and  as  the  rope  parted  he  heard  a  titter,  and  a 
horse  went  galloping  on.  It  was  a  practical  joke — 
Bowles  realized  that  the  moment  he  woke  up — but 
the  terror  of  that  first  grim  nightmare  wrenched 
his  soul  to  the  very  depths.  He  came  to,  cursing 
and  fighting,  still  bound  by  the  loop  of 
the  lariat  and  half-buried  in  the  wreck  of  the 
juniper.  Then  he  jerked  himself  loose  and  sprang 
up,  staring  about  in  the  darkness  for  some  enemy 
that  he  could  kill.  The  titter  of  the  galloping 
horseman  gave  the  answer,  and  he  knew  it  was 
Hardy  Atkins.  Hardy  had  given  him  till  night 
fall  to  quit  camp  or  look  out  for  trouble.  This 
was  the  trouble. 

Bowles  spread  out  his  bed  as  best  he  could  and 
slept  where  he  lay  till  dawn.  Then  he  went  to 
Henry  Lee  and  said  he  would  like  his  gun.  His 

[245] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

hands  were  bloody  and  torn  from  contact  with 
the  brush,  and  there  was  a  fresh  welt  above  one 
eye  that  gave  him  a  sinister  leer.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  it — Bowles  was  mad — and  after  a 
cursory  glance  the  boss  saw  he  was  out  for  blood. 

"Just  a  moment,  Mr.  Bowles,"  he  said,  ad 
vancing  to  the  fire.  "Boys,"  he  continued,  ad 
dressing  the  smirking  hands  who  stood  there,  "I 
make  it  a  rule  on  my  round-ups  that  nobody  car 
ries  a  gun.  That  includes  you,  too,  Mr.  Bowles," 
he  added  meaningly.  "Mosby,  get  me  a  gunny- 
sack." 

With  the  gunny-sack  under  one  arm  the  wagon- 
boss  went  the  rounds,  and  when  he  had  finished 
his  trip  the  sack  was  full  of  guns. 

"I'll  just  keep  these  till  we  get  back  to  the 
ranch,"  he  observed.  "And,"  he  added,  "the  next 
man  that  picks  on  Bowles  will  have  to  walk  to 
town.  Hardy,  were  you  in  on  this?" 

"No,  sir!"  replied  Atkins  stoutly.  "I  don't 
know  a  thing  about  it!" 

"Well,  be  mighty  careful  what  you  do," 
charged  Henry  Lee  severely.  "Brig,  throw  that 
herd  on  the  trail — we  might  as  well  hit  for  the 
ranch." 


[246] 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  DEATH  OF  HAPPY  JACK 

WHEN  Bowles  rode  back  to  the  Bat  Wing 
Ranch  he  was  a  hard-looking  citizen. 
His  aunt,  the  hypothetical  Mrs.  Earl-Bowles, 
would  scarcely  have  recognized  him;  Mrs.  Lee 
started  visibly  at  sight  of  his  battered  face;  and 
Dixie  smiled  knowingly  as  she  glanced  at  his  half- 
closed  eye. 

"Aha,  Mr.  Man,"  she  said,  "it  looks  like  you'd 
been  into  a  juniper,  too 1" 

"Well,  something  like  that,"  acknowledged 
Bowles,  gazing  lover-like  into  her  eyes ;  and  from 
that  he  led  the  conversation  into  other  channels, 
less  intimately  associated  with  common  brawls. 
For  though  Bowles  had  given  way  to  his  evil  pas 
sions  and  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  call  for  his 
gun  in  order  to  beard  his  rival,  he  did  not  wish 
it  known  to  his  lady.  As  he  contemplated  her 
grace  in  a  plain  white  dress,  and  the  witchery  of 
her  faintest  smile,  it  seemed  indeed  a  profana 
tion  of  the  sacred  Temple  of  Love  to  so  much  as 
allude  to  a  fight.  Undoubtedly  in  the  wooings  of 

[247] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

the  stone  age  the  males  had  competed  with  clubs, 
but  certainly  for  no  woman  like  this.  Love,  as 
Bowles  had  learned  it  from  the  poets,  was  above 
such  sordid  scenes;  and  as  he  had  learned  it  from 
her — when  she  had  chastened  his  soul  with  a 
kiss — ah,  now  he  could  sing  with  old  Ben  Jonson 
and  the  deathless  Greeks : 

"Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  within  the  cup, 
And  I'll  not  ask  for  wine." 

Here  was  the  shrine  at  which  he  worshiped, 
and  he  wished  no  carnal  thought  to  enter  in.  So  he 
spoke  to  her  softly  and  went  his  way,  lest  some 
one  should  read  his  heart  and  break  the  spell  with 
jeering. 

The  dust  of  a  day's  hard  driving  was  on  his 
face;  there  was  a  red  weal  over  one  eye  and  a 
bruise  on  his  bearded  cheek,  but  he  was  a  lover 
still.  Dixie  knew  it  by  his  eyes,  that  glowed  and 
kindled;  by  his  voice,  whose  every  word  veiled  a 
hidden  caress;  and  she  greeted  the  others  coldly 
from  thinking  of  this  one  who  had  come.  Then 
she  dissembled  and  went  down  among  them,  but  her 
ways  were  changed  and  she  only  smiled  at  their 
jests. 

"Hey,  Dix,"  challenged  Hardy  Atkins  at  last, 
[248] 


THE  DEATH  OF  HAPPY  JACK 

thrusting  a  grimy  hand  down  into  his  shap  pocket, 
"look  what  I  got  fer  ye!" 

He  drew  out  a  money-order  ring  that  he  had 
won  in  a  mountain  poker  game,  and  flashed  the 
stone  in  the  sun. 

"It's  a  genuwine,  eighteen-carat  diamond,"  he 
announced.  "Come  over  hyer  and  let's  see  which 
finger  it  fits.  If  it  fits  yore  third  finger,  you 
know " 

"Well,  I  like  your  nerve,"  observed  Dixie  Lee, 
smiling  tolerantly  with  Gloomy  Gus.  "  'Come 
over  hyer!'  eh?  It's  a  wonder  you  wouldn't 
come  over  here — but  I  don't  want  your  old  ring, 
so  don't  come." 

"W'y,  what's  the  matter?"  inquired  Hardy  At 
kins,  who  loved  to  do  his  courting  in  public.  "You 
ain't  goin'  back  on  me,  are  you,  Dix?" 

"Well,  if  I  went  very  far  back  on  your  trail," 
answered  Dixie,  "I  reckon  I'd  find  where  you  got 
that  ring.  What's  the  matter?  Wouldn't  she 
have  it?  Or  did  that  other  girl  give  it  back?" 

She  turned  away  with  a  curl  on  her  lips,  and 
when  he  saw  that  she  meant  it,  Hardy  Atkins  was 
filled  with  chagrin.  From  a  man  now,  that  would 
be  a  good  joke;  but  from  Dixie — well,  somebody 
must  have  blabbed !  He  turned  a  darkly  inquiring 
eye  upon  Bowles,  and  looked  no  farther;  but 
Henry  Lee  had  spoken,  and  all  that  rough  work 
[249] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

was  barred.  Still  there  were  ways  and  ways,  and 
after  thinking  over  all  the  dubious  tricks  of  the 
cow  camp  he  called  in  his  faithful  friends  and  they 
went  into  executive  session. 

"Now,  hyer,"  expounded  the  ex-twister,  as  they 
got  together  over  the  butchering  of  a  beef,  "the 
way  to  bump  that  Hinglishman  off  is  to  make  a 
monkey  of  'im — skeer  'im  up  and  laugh  'im  out 
o'  camp.  He's  so  stuck  on  himse'f  he  cain't  stand 
to  be  showed  up — what's  the  matter  with  a  fake 
killin'  ?  Here's  lots  of  blood." 

He  cupped  up  a  handful  of  blood  from  the 
viscera  of  the  newly  killed  beef,  and  his  side 
partners  chuckled  at  the  thought. 

"Let  me  do  the  shootin',  and  I'll  throw  in  with 
ye,"  rumbled  Buck  Buchanan. 

"I'll  hold  the  door  on  'im,"  volunteered  Poker 
Bill. 

"Well,  who's  goin'  to  play  dead?"  grinned 
Happy  Jack.  "Me?  All  right.  Git  some  flour 
to  put  on  my  face,  and  watch  me  make  the  fall — 
I  done  that  once  back  on  the  Pecos." 

So  they  laid  their  plans,  very  mysteriously,  and 
when  the  big  poker  game  began  that  night  there 
was  no  one  else  in  on  the  plot.  Buck  had  the 
pistol  he  had  killed  the  beef  with  tucked  away  in 
the  slack  of  his  belt;  Jack  had  changed  to  a  light 
shirt,  the  better  to  show  the  blood;  and  Hardy 

[250] 


THE  DEATH  OF  HAPPY  JACK 

Atkins  was  a  make-up  man,  with  bottled  blood 
and  a  pinch  of  flour  in  his  pockets  to  use  when  the 
lights  went  out. 

The  game  was  straight  draw  poker,  and  the 
prize  a  private  horse.  Ten  dollars  apiece  was 
the  price  of  a  chance,  and  it  was  freeze-out  at 
four-bits  a  chip.  That  served  to  draw  the  whole 
crowd,  and  as  the  contest  narrowed  down  to  Buck 
Buchanan  and  Happy  Jack,  the  table  was  lined 
three  deep. 

"How  many?"  asked  Buck,  picking  up  the  deck. 

"Gimme  one!"  said  Jack,  and  when  he  got  it 
he  looked  grave  and  turned  down  his  hand,  the 
way  all  good  poker  players  do  when  they  have 
tried  to  fill  a  flush  and  failed. 

"I  bet  ye  ten!"  challenged  Jack. 

"Go  you — and  ten  more!"  came  back  Buck. 

"Raise  ye  twenty!" 

"What  ye  got?"  demanded  Buck,  shoving  his 
beans  to  the  center,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  roar, 
he  leaped  up  and  seized  the  stakes.  "Keep  yore 
hands  off  that  discyard!"  he  bellowed,  hammer 
ing  furiously  on  the  table.  "You  lie,  you " 

Whack!  came  Happy  Jack's  hand  across  his 
face,  and  Buchanan  grabbed  for  his  gun.  Then, 
as  the  crowd  scattered  wildly,  he  thrust  out  his 
pistol  and  shot  a  great  flash  of  powder  between 
Happy  Jack's  arm  and  his  ribs. 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Uh!"  grunted  Jack,  and  went  over  backward, 
chair  and  all. 

Then  Hardy  Atkins  blew  out  the  lamp,  and  the 
riot  went  on  in  the  dark.  Bowles  was  only  one 
of  ten  frantic  punchers  who  struggled  to  get  out 
the  door;  Brigham  Clark  was  one  of  as  many 
more  who  burrowed  beneath  the  beds ;  and  when 
Hardy  Atkins  lit  the  lamp  and  threw  the  dim 
light  on  Happy  Jack's  wan  face  he  was  just  in 
time  to  save  his  audience.  True,  the  older  punch 
ers  had  been  in  fake  fights  before;  but  they  had 
been  in  real  ones,  too — where  the  bullets  flew  wide 
of  the  mark — and  this  had  seemed  mighty  real. 
In  fact,  if  one  were  to  criticize  such  a  finished 
production,  it  was  a  little  too  real  for  the  purpose, 
for  the  conduct  of  Bowles  was  in  no  wise  different 
from  the  rest.  There  had  been  a  little  too  much 
secrecy  and  not  quite  enough  team-work  about  the 
play,  but  Poker-face  Bill  was  still  at  his  post  and 
the  victim  was  caught  in  the  crowd. 

"Oh,  my  Gawd!"  moaned  Hardy  Atkins,  kneel 
ing  down  and  tearing  aside  Jack's  coat.  "Are 
you  hurt  bad,  Jack?" 

The  red  splotch  on  his  shirt  gave  the  answer, 
and  the  room  was  silent  as  death.  Then  Poker 
Bill  began  to  whisper  and  push;  delighted  grins 
were  passed  and  stilled;  and,  moving  in  a  mass, 
with  Bowles  up  near  the  front,  the  crowd  closed 
in  on  the  corpse. 

[252] 


THE  DEATH  OF  HAPPY  JACK 

"He's  dead!"  rumbled  Buck  Buchanan,  making 
a  fierce  gesture  with  his  pistol.  "I  don't  make 
no  mistakes.  You  boys  saw  him  cheat,"  he  went 
on,  approaching  nearer  to  the  crowd.  "And  he 
slapped  me  first!  You  saw  that,  didn't  you, 
Bowles?" 

"Oh,  hush  up!"  cried  Hardy  Atkins,  tragically 
shaking  his  fallen  friend;  and  then  as  he  worked 
up  to  the  big  scene  where  Happy  Jack  was  to 
come  to  life  and  run  amuck  after  Bowles,  the  door 
was  kicked  open  and  gloomy  Gus  strode  in. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  fellers?"  he  de 
manded,  his  voice  trembling  with  indignation  at 
the  thought  of  his  broken  sleep,  and  then,  at  sight 
of  Jack,  he  stopped. 

"Jack's  dead,"  said  Hardy  Atkins,  trying  hard 
to  give  Gus  the  wink;  but  the  cook  was  staring  at 
the  corpse.  Perhaps,  being  roused  from  a  sound 
sleep,  his  senses  were  not  quite  as  acute  as  usual; 
perhaps  the  play-acting  was  too  good;  be  that  as 
it  may,  his  rage  was  changed  to  pity,  and  he  took 
the  center  of  the  stage. 

"Ah,  poor  Jack!"  he  quavered,  going  closer 
and  gazing  down  upon  him.  "Shot  through  the 
heart.  He's  dead,  boys;  they's  no  use  workin' 
on  'im — I've  seen  many  a  man  like  that  before." 

"Well,  let's  try,  anyway!"  urged  Atkins,  in  a 
desperate  endeavor  to  get  rid  of  him.  "Go  git 
some  water,  Gus !  Haven't  you  got  any  whisky?" 

[253] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Oh,  he's  dead,"  mourned  the  cook;  "they's 
no  use  troublin'  him — it's  all  over  with  poor  old 
Jack.  You'll  never  hear  him  laugh  no  more." 

A  faint  twitch  came  over  the  set  features  of  the 
corpse  at  this,  and  Hardy  Atkins  leaped  desper 
ately  in  to  shield  his  face. 

"He  was  a  good-hearted  boy,"  continued  Gloomy 
Gus,  still  intent  upon  his  eulogy — and  then  Happy 
Jack  broke  down.  First  he  began  to  twitch,  then  a 
snort  escaped  him,  and  he  shook  with  inextin 
guishable  laughter.  A  look  went  around  the 
room,  Brigham  Clark  punched  Bowles  with  his 
elbow  and  pulled  him  back,  and  then  Gus  glanced 
down  at  the  corpse.  His  peroration  ceased  right 
there,  and  disgust,  chagrin,  and  anger  chased 
themselves  across  his  face  like  winds  across  a  lake; 
then,  with  a  wicked  oath,  he  snatched  the  gun 
away  from  Buck  and  struggled  to  get  it  cocked. 

"You  young  limb!"  he  raved,  menacing  Happy 
Jack  with  the  pistol  and  fighting  to  break  clear 
of  Buck.  "You'll  play  a  trick  on  me,  will  ye — 
an  old  man  and  punched  cows  before  you  was 
born !  Let  go  of  that  gun,  Mr.  Buchanan !  I'll 

show  the  blankety-blank "  And  so  he  raged, 

while  the  conspirators  labored  to  soothe  him,  and 
Brig  dragged  Bowles  outside. 


[254] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A   CALL 

THERE  is  a  regrettable  but  very  well  defined 
tendency  in  human  nature  which  prompts  the 
author  of  a  miss-fire  revenge  to  take  it  out  on  the 
dog.  Certainly  there  was  no  more  innocent  party  to 
the  inveigling  of  Gloomy  Gus  than  Bowles,  and 
yet  for  some  reason  Hardy  Atkins  and  his  com 
rades  in  crime  chose  to  gaze  upon  him  with  a 
frown.  After  laboring  far  into  the  night  they 
had  finally  persuaded  the  cook  that  it  was  all  a 
mistake;  that  no  insult  was  intended  to  his  years; 
and  that  it  would  be  contrary  to  those  high  prin 
ciples  of  Southern  chivalry  of  which  he  had  always 
been  such  an  illustrious  exponent  to  report  the 
fake  fight  to  the  boss.  Then  they  had  busied 
themselves  in  the  early  morning  with  chopping 
wood  and  packing  water,  and  similar  ingratiating 
tasks,  with  the  result  that,  when  Henry  Lee  came 
down  after  breakfast,  there  was  no  complaint 
from  anybody.  But  when  he  had  let  it  pass,  and 
started  off  for  Chula  Vista,  it  was  cloudy  in  the 
south  for  Bowles. 

But  your  true  lover,  with  the  wine  of  ecstasy  in 

[255] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

his  veins,  and  haunting  feminine  glimpses  to  catch 
his  eye,  is  not  likely  to  be  scanning  the  horizon 
for  a  cloud  the  size  of  a  man's  hand.  Bowies' 
troubles  began  that  evening  when,  after  an  ardu 
ous  day  in  the  saddle,  he  returned  to  his  own 
social  sphere.  For  two  months  and  more  Samuel 
Bowles  had  been  a  cow-hand.  He  had  slept  on 
the  ground,  he  had  eaten  in  the  dirt,  and  when 
luck  had  gone  against  him  he  had  learned  to 
swear.  But  now,  as  he  was  riding  past  the  gate, 
Mrs.  Lee,  in  a  charming  house-gown,  had  waylaid 
him  with  a  smile;  he  paused  for  a  friendly  word, 
and  his  breeding  had  prompted  him  to  linger 
while  she  chatted ;  then  she  had  invited  him  to  din 
ner — not  supper — and  he  had  forgotten  his  lowly 
part.  Forgotten  also  was  the  warning  of  Hardy 
Atkins,  now  so  sullen  in  his  defeat,  and  every 
thing  else  except  the  lure  of  dainty  living  and  the 
memory  of  a  smile.  So,  after  a  hasty  shave  and 
a  change  to  cleaner  clothes,  he  stepped  out  boldly 
from  the  ranks  and  walked  up  to  the  big  white 
house. 

The  chill  and  gusty  days  of  early  spring  had 
passed  and  the  soft  warmth  of  May  had  brought 
out  all  the  flowers.  Along  the  gallery  the  honey 
suckle  and  the  Cherokee  climbers  were  fragrant 
with  the  first  blossoms  of  summer,  and  Bowles 
was  glad  to  tarry  beneath  them  when  Mrs.  Lee 

[256] 


A  CALL 

met  him  hospitably  at  the  stoop.  In  the  far  west 
the  Tortugas  were  passing  through  the  daily 
miracle  of  sunset,  and  the  hush  of  evening  had 
settled  upon  all  the  land. 

"Ah,  Mrs.  Lee,"  sighed  Bowles,  as  he  con 
templated  with  a  poet's  eye  the  beauties  of  nature, 
"now  I  understand  how  you  can  live  here  for 
thirty  years  and  never  go  back  to  New  York. 
Such  illumination — such  color!  And  from  the 
hill  here,  it  is  so  much  more  glorious !  Really,  in 
spite  of  the  loneliness,  I  almost  envy  you  those 
thirty  years!" 

"Yes,"  admitted  Mrs.  Lee,  leading  him  to  a 
rawhide  chair  beneath  the  honeysuckle,  "it  is 
beautiful.  I  like  it — in  a  way — but  still,  I  can 
never  forget  New  York.  It  offers  so  much,  you 
know,  of  music  and  art  and  society;  and  yet — 
well,  Henry  needed  me,  and  so  I  stayed.  But 
I  have  tried  to  give  my  daughter  what  advantages 
I  could.  I  have  a  sister,  you  know,  living  in  New 
York — Mrs.  Elwood  Tupper — perhaps  you  know 
her?" 

"Why,  the  name  seems  familiar,"  returned 
Bowles  glibly. 

"Yes,  she's  my  sister,"  resumed  Mrs.  Lee,  after 
glancing  at  him  curiously.  "Dixie  was  with  her 
all  last  winter — I  thought  perhaps  you  might  have 
met  her  there?" 

[257] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

Once  more  she  gazed  at  him  in  that  same  in 
quiring  way,  and  Bowles  wondered  if  she  had 
heard  anything,  but  he  was  quick  to  elude  the 
point. 

"Hmm,"  he  mused,  "Tupper!  No,  I  hardly 
think  so.  When  I  return,  though,  I  shall  be  glad 
to  look  her  up — perhaps  I  can  convey  some  mes 
sage  from  you.  Your  daughter  must  find  it  rather 
close  and  confining  in  the  city,  after  her  fine,  free 
life  in  the  open.  Really,  Mrs.  Lee,  I  never  knew 
what  living  was  until  I  came  out  here  !  Of  course, 
I'm  very  new  yet " 

"Yes,"  agreed  Mrs.  Lee,  who  knew  a  few 
social  sleights  herself,  "Dixie  did  complain  of  the 
confinement,  but  she O  Dixie!" 

"Yes,  Mother!"  replied  a  dutiful  voice  from 
within. 

"Come  out  on  the  gallery — Mr.  Bowles  is  here. 
But  she  met  some  very  nice  people  there — some 
of  the  real  old  families,  you  know — and  I 
thought " 

The  door  opened  at  this  point,  and  Bowles 
leapt  to  his  feet  in  astonishment.  It  was  a  dif 
ferent  Dixie  that  appeared  before  him — the  same 
bewitching  creature  who  had  dazzled  his  eyes  at 
the  Wordsworth  Club,  and  she  wore  the  very 
same  gown.  And  what  a  wonderful  transforma 
tion  it  seemed  to  make  in  her — she  was  so  quiet 

[258] 


A  CALL 

and  demure  now,  and  she  greeted  him  in  quite  the 
proper  manner. 

"I  was  just  telling  Mr.  Bowles,  Dixie,"  con 
tinued  Mrs.  Lee,  still  holding  to  her  fixed  idea, 
"that  you  went  out  quite  a  little  in  New  York — 
and  perhaps  you  might  have  met  back  there." 

For  a  moment  the  two  eyed  each  other  shrewd 
ly,  each  guessing  how  much  the  other  had  said, 
and  then  Bowles  opened  up  the  way. 

"Why,  really,  Miss  Lee,"  he  exclaimed,  still 
gazing  at  her  with  admiring  eyes,  "you  do  look 
familiar  in  that  dress !  Perhaps  we  have  met  in  a 
crush,  like  ships  that  pass  in  the  night?  May  I 
ask  at  what  function  you  wore  this  charming  gown  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  Mr.  Bowles,"  returned  Dixie 
May;  "but,  rather  than  run  over  the  whole  list 
and  recall  a  winter's  agony,  let's  take  it  for 
granted  that  we  met.  It's  a  fine,  large  place  to 
come  away  from,  isn't  it — dear  old  New  York? 
Wasn't  the  slush  of  those  sidewalks  something 
elegant?  And  that  steam  heat!  My!  It  never 
gets  as  hot  as  that  out  here.  Yes,  indeed,  Mother, 
I'm  sure  Mr.  Bowles  and  I  have  met  before; 
but,"  she  added,  and  here  her  voice  changed, 
"since  he's  traveling  incognito,  changing  his  name 
as  a  garment  and  not  getting  any  letters  from 
home,  perhaps  it's  just  as  well  not  to  dwell  upon 
the  matter." 

[259] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Why,  Dixie,  child!"  protested  Mrs.  Lee. 
"What  in  the  world  do  you  mean?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  Mother,  except  that  he  is  our 
guest.  Shall  we  go  in  now  to  dinner?" 

They  went  in,  and  throughout  the  rest  of  the 
evening  Bowles  was  guiltily  conscious  of  a  startled 
mother's  eyes  which  regarded  him  with  anxious 
scrutiny  at  first  and  then  became  very  resolute  ?,nd 
stern.  Mrs.  Lee  had  solved  her  problem,  what 
ever  it  was,  and  settled  upon  her  duty.  Bowles 
felt  a  social  chill  creep  into  the  air  as  he  rose  to 
go,  and  he  braced  himself  for  some  ultimatum; 
but  his  hostess  did  not  speak  her  thoughts.  There 
was  no  further  allusion  to  New  York,  or  his  alias, 
or  the  fact  that  he  had  acted  a  lie.  All  those 
things  were  taken  for  granted,  and  he  left  with  a 
balked  feeling,  as  if  he  had  failed  of  some  pur 
pose.  Her  very  silence  clutched  at  his  heart,  and 
her  passive  hand-touch  as  they  parted.  Dixie, 
too,  seemed  to  share  in  the  general  aloofness. 
She  had  said  good-night  without  any  friendly  grip 
of  the  fingers,  looking  at  him  very  straight,  as  if 
to  fathom  his  deceit. 

Bowles  lay  awake  that  night  and  thought  it  out, 
and  he  saw  where  he  had  made  his  mistake.  From 
the  first  his  manner  had  been  evasive  almost  to 
mendacity,  and,  with  both  Dixie  and  her  mother, 
he  had  made  a  mystery  of  his  past.  Now  the 
time  for  explanations  was  gone,  and  he  was  reap- 
[260] 


A  CALL 

ing  his  just  reward.  He  should  have  taken  Dixie 
into  his  confidence  when  they  were  alone  beneath 
the  cedars;  he  should  have  answered  that  question 
of  hers  when  she  asked  it — but  now  it  was  too  late. 

"Mr.  Bowles,"  t,*ie  had  said,  "who  are  you, 
anyway?" 

And  when  he  had  evaded  her,  she  had  never 
asked  again.  And  now,  through  the  same  dam 
nable  ineptitude,  he  had  estranged  her  mother  and 
lost  his  welcome  at  the  big  house.  All  the  ex 
planations  in  the  world  would  not  square  him  now, 
for  one  deceit  follows  another  and  his  second 
word  was  no  better  than  his  first.  He  could  see 
with  half  an  eye  that  Mrs.  Lee  distrusted  him. 
He  must  seem  to  her  candid  mind  no  less  than  a 
polite  adventurer,  a  ne'er-do-weel  young  profli 
gate  from  the  East  with  intentions  as  dark  as  his 
past.  Nor  could  he  bring  himself  to  blame  her, 
for  the  inference  was  logical — if  a  man  conceals 
his  identity  and  denies  his  acquaintances  and 
friends,  surely  there  must  be  something  shameful 
that  he  is  at  such  pains  to  hide. 

But  the  way  out?  That  was  what  kept  Bowles 
awake.  Certainly,  if  he  were  a  gentleman,  he 
would  stay  away  from  the  house.  Nor  would  it 
be  wholly  honorable  to  waylay  Dixie  May  and 
explain.  And,  besides,  there  was  nothing  to  ex 
plain.  He  had  references,  of  course,  but  if  he 
gave  them,  his  aunt  would  discover  his  where- 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

abouts  and  summon  him  home — and  then  there 
was  Christabel! 

The  memory  of  those  prearranged  meetings 
at  his  aunt's  swept  over  him,  and  he  shuddered 
where  he  lay.  Dear,  pretty,  patient  Christabel! 
What  if  she  should  sense  this  conspiracy  to 
make  him  marry  her  and  lose  that  friendly 
smile?  What  if  she  should  blush  as  he  had 
blushed  at  each  chance  tete-a-tete,  gazing  nerv 
ously  into  his  eyes  to  guess  if  he  would  yield? 
And  to  wonder  if  that  was  love !  Ah  no,  he  could 
never  do  that !  Rather  than  inflict  such  torture 
upon  her  he  would  flee  to  the  depths  of  the  wilder 
ness  and  hide  until  she  was  married.  But  his 
safety  lay  only  in  flight,  for  his  aunt  was  a  resolute 
woman,  with  tears  and  sighs  at  her  command,  if 
all  else  failed.  Yes,  he  must  run  away — that  was 
the  way  out. 

And  it  would  solve  all  his  problems  at  once. 
There  would  be  no  lame  explanations  to  make  at 
the  house,  no  cheap  jealousies  with  Hardy  Atkins, 
no  breaking  of  his  cherished  dream  of  seeing  the 
West.  He  would  move  on  into  the  White  Moun 
tains  and  explore  their  fastnesses  with  Brigham. 
Or,  lacking  Brigham,  he  would  plunge  into  that 
wilderness  alone. 

The  harsh  clangor  of  Gloomy  Gus's  dishpan 
cut  short  his  fitful  sleep,  and  he  rolled  out  of  bed 
with  his  mind  made  up  to  quit.  At  breakfast  he 
[262] 


A  CALL 

said  nothing,  bolting  his  food  with  the  rest  of 
them,  and  followed  on  to  the  horse  corral  for  a 
private  word  with  Brig.  But  right  there  fate 
played  him  a  scurvy  trick,  and  disrupted  all  his 
schemes,  for  as  he  stepped  around  behind  the 
corral  Hardy  Atkins  strode  in  upon  him  and  made 
signs  to  certain  of  his  friends. 

"Now,  lookee  here,  Mr.  Man,"  he  said,  and  he 
said  it  quietly  for  once,  uyou  been  four-flushin' 
around  hyer  long  enough,  and  we  give  you  warnin' 
to  git.  We  got  yore  record  and  we  know  what 
you're  after,  so  don't  hand  us  out  any  bull.  Yore 
name  ain't  Bowles  and  you're  aimin'  at  Dix,  but 
she's  got  too  many  good  friends.  Now  we've  let 
you  off  easy,  so  far,  but  Gawd  he'p  you  if  we  come 
ag'in.  Ain't  that  so,  boys?" 

"You  bet  it  is!"  answered  three  or  four,  and 
the  rest  of  them  looked  their  disdain. 

But  an  unreasoning  anger  swept  over  Bowles 
at  the  very  first  word,  and  he  returned  the  sneer 
with  interest. 

"Mr.  Atkins,"  he  said,  "you  have  threatened 
me  b&fore,  but  I  am  not  afraid  of  you.  You  can 
not  frighten  me  away." 

"Oh,  I  cain't,  cain't  I?"  jeered  Hardy  Atkins, 
while  his  friends  rumbled  threats  from  behind. 
"Well,  poco  pronto  you're  liable  to  change  yore 
mind.  You  come  into  this  country  on  a  Hinglish 
trot  and  we  thought  you  was  a  sport,  but  now 

[263] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

that  we  know  better,  you  got  to  make  good  or  git. 
Ain't  that  so,  boys?" 

"You  bet  it  is!"  roared  the  bunch,  and  Atkins 
hitched  up  his  shaps. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "You  got  a  job  with  this 
outfit  by  claimin'  that  you  could  ride.  Now — 
you're  so  brave — either  you  ride  that  Dunbar 
hawse  the  way  you  said  or  we  kick  you  out  o' 
camp !  You  can  take  yore  choice." 

"Very  well,"  said  Bowles;  "I'll  ride  the  horse." 

"Like  hell  you  will!"  sneered  the  gang  in  a 
chorus,  but  Bowles  did  not  heed  their  words. 

"Any  time  you  put  the  saddle  on  him,"  he  said, 
"I'll  ride  him." 

At  this  they  stood  irresolute,  unable  to  make 
him  out.  On  the  morning  that  he  had  ridden 
Wa-ha-lote  he  was  a  tenderfoot,  not  knowing  one 
horse  from  another,  but  now  he  had  seen  the 
worst.  And  yet  he  would  climb  up  on  Dunbar  I 

"Come  on — let's  rope  'im!"  urged  Hardy 
Atkins,  but  he  did  not  move  out  of  his  tracks. 
"No,  the  boss  is  comin'  back,"  he  said.  "Let's 
wait  till  we're  hyer  by  ourse'ves.  All  right,  Mr. 
Bronco-bustin'  Bowles,  we'll  fix  you  good  and 
plenty — the  first  time  the  folks  leave  the  house. 
And  meantime,  if  you  value  yore  health,  you 
better  stay  down  on  low  ground." 

"I    will    go    wherever    I    please,"    answered 
Bowles;  but  he  stayed  down  on  the  low  ground. 
[264] 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  HORSE  THAT  KILLED  DUNBAR 

IN  the  Homeric  simplicity  of  the  cow  camps, 
where  the  primitive  emotions  still  rule,  any 
soul-stirring  which  cannot  find  its  expression  in 
curses  is  pretty  sure  to  seek  the  level  of  laughter. 
The  boys  were  profoundly  moved  by  Bowies' 
declaration  of  intention,  but  after  gazing  upon 
him  for  a  spell  in  mingled  incredulity  and  awe, 
their  lips  began  to  curl. 

"Aw— him!"  they  said.  "Him  ride  Dunbar? 
Umph-umm !  We'll  wake  up  some  mornin'  and 
find  him  gone!" 

Then,  as  a  morning  or  two  passed  and  Bowles 
was  still  in  his  place,  they  began  to  lapse  into  jest. 

"Old  Henry  will  shore  be  s'prised  when  he 
comes  back  from  town,"  observed  blithesome 
Happy  Jack.  "He'll  find  Bowles  ridin'  Dunbar 
with  a  hackamore  and  feedin'  him  sugar  from  his 
hand.  Big  doin's  soon  to  come,  boys — boss  and 
family  goin'  down  to  Chula  Vista  to-morrer." 

"Well,  we  better  hog-tie  Hinglish,  then," 
grumbled  Buck  Buchanan;  "he'll  never  last  till 
mornin'.  Gittin'  right  close  on  to  that  time!" 

[265] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Never  you  mind  about  Hinglish,"  retorted 
Brigham  Clark,  whose  loyalty  had  been  fanned 
to  a  flame.  "If  it  was  you,  Buck  Buchanan,  we 
couldn't  see  you  fer  dust  right  now.  They  ain't 
a  man  of  ye  dares  to  say  he'd  ride  Dunbar,  let 
alone  the  doin'  of  it.  Will  you  ride  him  second 
if  he  throws  Bowles  off?  Well,  keep  yore  face 
shut,  then!  The  whole  bunch  of  ye  ought  to  be 
canned  fer  tryin'  to  git  4m  killed!" 

"Well,  let  'im  go  on  away,  then!"  burst  out 
Hardy  Atkins.  "We  never  told  'im  to  ride  Dun- 
bar — we  told  'im  to  quit  his  four-flushin'  and 
either  make  good  or  git.  There's  the  road  down 
there— let  'im  take  to  it!" 

He  jerked  an  imperious  hand  at  Bowles,  who 
answered  him  with  a  scowl. 

"If  you  will  kindly  mind  your  own  business, 
Mr.  Atkins,"  he  purled,  "I  shall  certainly  be 
greatly  obliged." 

He  gave  each  word  the  Harvard  accent  and 
tipped  it  off  with  venom,  for  Bowles  was  losing 
his  repose.  In  fact,  he  was  mad,  mad  all  over, 
and  at  every  remark  he  bristled  like  a  dog.  A 
concatenation  of  circumstances  had  thrown  him 
into  the  company  of  these  Texas  brawlers,  but  he 
aimed  to  show  by  every  means  in  his  power  his 
absolute  contempt  for  their  trickery  and  his  de 
termination  to  stand  on  his  rights.  He  had  said 
[266] 


THE  HORSE  THAT  KILLED  DUNBAR 

he  would  ride  Dunbar,  and  that  was  enough — he 
had  given  his  word  as  a  gentleman.  Therefore, 
he  resented  their  insinuations  and  desired  only  to 
be  left  alone.  Certainly  he  had  enough  on  his 
mind  to  keep  him  occupied  without  responding 
to  ill-natured  remarks. 

Fate  was  piling  things  up  on  poor  Bowles,  and 
he  earnestly  longed  for  the  end.  There  is  a 
cynic's  saying  that  every  time  a  man  gets  into 
trouble  his  girl  goes  back  on  him,  just  to  carry 
out  the  run  of  luck;  and  while  of  course  it  isn't 
true,  it  seemed  that  way  to  Bowles.  Perhaps  his 
own  manner  had  had  something  to  do  with  it,  but, 
the  morning  after  his  rebuff,  Dixie  greeted  him 
almost  as  a  stranger,  and,  falling  back  shortly 
afterward  into  her  old  carefree  way  of  talking, 
she  began  to  josh  with  the  boys.  Then  she  took 
a  long  ride  with  Brigham,  a  ride  that  left  him 
all  lit  up  with  enthusiasm  and  made  him  want 
to  talk  about  love.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Dixie 
had  sensed  something  big  in  the  air  and  was 
anxiously  ferreting  it  out,  but  Bowles  did  not 
know  about  that.  All  he  knew  was  that  he  dis 
approved  of  her  conduct,  and  wondered  vaguely 
what  her  mother  would  say.  Not  that  it  was  any 
of  his  business,  but  he  wondered  all  the  same ;  and, 
wondering,  shook  his  head  and  sighed. 

But  three  days  of  flirting  and  sleuthing  brought 

[267] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

nothing  to  Dixie's  net.  From  the  cook  down,  the 
outfit  was  a  solid  phalanx  against  her — they  would 
talk  and  smile  but  they  never  showed  their  hand. 
One  clue  and  only  one  she  had — there  seemed 
to  be  an  unusual  interest  in  when  she  was  going 
to  town.  First  on  one  pretext  and  then  on  another 
they  inquired  casually  about  the  date,  and  if  her 
folks  were  going  along  too.  So,  whatever  the 
deviltry  was,  it  was  something  that  called  for 
secrecy — and  it  was  due  on  the  day  they  left  home. 
She  looked  them  over  as  they  gathered  about  the 
evening  fire,  and  smoothed  her  hair  down  thought 
fully — and  the  next  morning  she  started  for  town. 

The  sale  of  his  steers  was  making  Henry  Lee 
a  lot  of  trouble — and  the  holding  of  them  as  well. 
Not  being  able  to  find  a  buyer  at  his  price,  he  set 
the  cowboys  to  fence  mending — lest  the  outlaws 
should  breach  the  wires — and  went  back  and  forth 
to  town.  And  this  morning  his  wife  went  with 
him,  sitting  close  behind  the  grays,  with  Dixie 
riding  fast  behind.  Their  dust  changed  to  haze 
on  the  horizon  before  any  one  moved  a  hand,  and 
then  Hardy  Atkins  turned  on  Bowles. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Bowles,"  he  said.  "Here's 
where  we  see  yore  hand.  I'll  saddle  that  hawse 
if  you'll  ride  'im,  but  don't  make  me  that  trouble 
fer  nothin',  because  if  you  do " 

"Oh,  shut  up!"  snapped  Bowles,  whose  nerves 
[268] 


THE  HORSE  THAT  KILLED  DUNBAR 

were  worn  to  a  frazzle.  "What's  the  use  of  talk 
ing  about  it?  Put  the  saddle  on  him!" 

"Holy  Jehu!"  whistled  Atkins.  "Listen  to  the 
boy  talk,  will  you?  Must  have  somethin'  on  his 
mind — what?" 

"Well,  quit  yore  foolin' !"  put  in  Brigham 
abruptly.  "We'll  all  git  fired  fer  this,  and  him 
liable  to  git  killed  to  boot,  so  hurry  up  and  let's 
have  it  over  with!" 

"I'll  go  ye!"  laughed  the  ex-twister,  skipping 
off  with  a  sprightly  step.  "Come  on,  boys;  it'll 
take  the  bunch  of  us — but  I'll  saddle  old  Dunbar 
or  die!  'O-oh,  hit's  not  the  'unting  that  'urts  the 
'orse's  'oofs;  hit's  the  'ammer,  'ammer,  'ammer  on 
the  'ard  'ighway !'  E-e-e — hoo  !" 

He  laughed  and  cut  another  caper  as  he  ended 
this  bald  refrain,  and  Brigham  glowered  at  him 
balefully. 

"  'Hit's!'  he  quoted.  "  'Hits!'  Listen  to  the 
ignorant  cracker !  I  never  seen  a  Texican  yet  that 
could  talk  the  straight  U.  S. !  But  go  on  now, 
you  low-flung  cotton-pickers,  and  I'll  fix  Bowles 
fer  his  ridin'!" 

They  hustled  away  as  he  spoke,  the  best  of 
them  to  wrangle  Dunbar,  and  the  rest  to  admire 
the  sight.  Here  was  an  event  that  would  go  down 
in  Bat  Wing  history,  and  only  the  cook  stayed 
away.  Life  had  been  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 

[269] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

to  Gloomy  Gus  since  he  delivered  the  oration  over 
Happy  Jack,  and  the  very  care  with  which  all 
hands  refrained  from  speaking  of  it  showed  how 
poignant  the  joke  had  been.  Faces  which  had 
looked  pleasant  to  him  before  were  repulsive  now, 
and  in  this  last  assay  on  Bowles  he  saw  but  a 
recrudescence  of  the  horse-play  which  had  worked 
such  havoc  with  his  own  pride.  Therefore,  he 
was  morose  and  sullen  and  stayed  with  his  pots 
and  pans. 

"I  want  to  warn  you,  Mr.  Bowles,"  he  called, 
as  Bowles  came,  full-rigged,  from  the  bunk-house. 
"I  want  to  give  you  warnin' — thet  hawse  is  dan 
gerous!" 

UA11  right,  Mr.  Mosby,"  answered  Bowles 
absently,  as  he  started  for  the  round  corral. 

"He  done  killed  a  man!"  croaked  Gloomy  Gus. 
"A  right  good  cow-puncher,  too — I  knowed  him 
well.  Jim  Dunbar — the  top  rider  of  the  outfit. 
Don't  say  I  never  warned  you,  now — keep  off  that 
hawse!" 

"All  right,  Mr.  Mosby,"  responded  Bowles, 
but  he  never  missed  a  stride.  The  time  had  come 
to  show  himself  a  man,  and,  like  an  athlete  who 
goes  forth  to  win,  his  thoughts  were  on  the  battle. 

"You  want  to  set  him  limber,"  reiterated  Brig- 
ham  in  his  ear.  "Ride  'im  like  a  drunk  man,  and 
whip  'im  at  every  jump — it  gives  you  somethin' 
[270] 


THE  HORSE  THAT  KILLED  DUNBAR 

to  do.  Grab  'im  with  yore  spurs  every  time  he 
lights ;  and  look  out  he  don't  bite  yore  legs.  Here, 
take  my  quirt — it's  heavier — and  if  he  starts  to 
go  over  backwards,  hit  'im  hard  between  the  ears. 
You  kin  ride  'im,  pardner,  I  know  it !  Jest  keep 
cool  and  don't  get  stiff!" 

"All  right,  Brig,"  muttered  Bowles;  "all 
right!"  But  his  eyes  were  on  the  corral. 

A  cloud  of  dust  rose  on  the  still  morning  air 
like  smoke  from  some  red-burning  fire,  and 
through  the  poles  of  the  fence  he  could  see  horses 
running  like  mad,  and  men  with  trailing  ropes. 
Then,  as  the  stampede  rose  to  a  thunder  of  feet, 
he  heard  a  shrill  yell  of  triumph,  and  scrambling 
men  jerked  the  bars  from  the  gate.  The  current 
of  galloping  slackened,  it  paused,  and  the  leaders 
shot  out  the  gap  with  a  sea  of  high-flung  heads 
behind.  When  the  dust  of  their  outrush  had 
settled,  there  was  only  one  horse  left  inside — the 
horse  that  killed  Dunbar — and  he  lay  grunting  in 
the  dirt. 

"Fetch  me  that  hackamore!"  yelled  Hardy 
Atkins  from  where  he  knelt  on  the  brute's  strain 
ing  neck.  "Now  bring  me  that  well-rope — we'll 
tie  up  his  dad-burned  leg!" 

They  gave  him  the  ropes  as  he  called  for  them, 
and  he  rigged  them  with  masterful  hands — first 
the  rough-twisted  hackamore,  to  go  over  his  head 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

and  cut  off  his  breath;  then  the  two-inch  well-rope, 
to  hang  from  his  neck  and  serve  later  to  noose  his 
hind  foot.  Then  all  hands  tailed  on  to  the  throw- 
rope;  they  swayed  back  as  he  rose  to  his  feet;  and 
when  Dunbar  went  to  the  end  of  it,  the  heave  they 
gave  threw  him  flat.  He  leaped  up  and  flew  back 
on  his  haunches,  and  the  rope  halter  cut  off  his 
breath.  His  sides  heaved  as  he  struggled  against 
it ;  his  eyes  bulged  big  and  he  shook  his  head ;  then, 
with  a  final  paroxysm,  he  sank  to  his  knees  and 
they  slackened  away  on  the  rope.  A  single  mighty 
breath,  and  he  was  up  on  his  feet  and  fighting; 
and  they  choked  him  down  again.  Then  Hardy 
Atkins  stepped  in  behind  and  picked  up  the  end 
of  the  shoulder  rope,  where  it  dragged  between 
his  legs,  and  drew  the  loop  up  to  his  hocks.  A 
jerk — a  kick  at  the  burn — and  Dunbar  was  put  on 
three  legs.  He  fought,  because  that  was  his 
nature,  but  it  was  in  vain ;  they  trussed  his  foot  up 
high,  tied  the  rope's  end  to  the  neck  loop,  and 
clapped  a  broad  blind  over  his  eyes.  So  Dunbar 
was  conquered,  and  while  he  squealed  and  cow- 
kicked,  they  lashed  Bowies'  saddle  on  his  bowed- 
up  back  and  slipped  the  bit  between  his  teeth. 

There  he  stood  at  last,  old  Dunbar  the  man- 
killer,  sweating  and  trembling  and  cringing  his 
head  to  the  blind,  and  Bowles  jumped  down  off 
the  fence. 

[272] 


THE  HORSE  THAT  KILLED  DUNBAR 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "you  can  let  down  his  foot. 
I'll  pull  up  the  blinder  myself." 

"Say  yore  prayers  first,  Mr.  Man,"  gritted 
Atkins,  lolling  and  mopping  his  face.  "If  he's 
half  as  good  as  his  promise,  you'll  never  git  off 
alive!" 

"Very  likely,"  observed  Bowles  grimly.  "You 
can  let  his  foot  down  now." 

"Hey!  Git  a  move  on!"  yelled  a  cow-puncher 
up  on  the  fence.  "They's  somebody  comin'  up 
the  road!" 

"Aw,  let  'em  come,"  drawled  Atkins  carelessly. 
"They're  hurryin'  up  to  see  the  show.  Step  up 
and  look  'im  over!"  he  grinned  at  Bowles.  "No 
rush — you  got  lots  of  time!" 

"Let  his  foot  down!"  snarled  Bowles,  his 
nerves  giving  way  to  anger.  "I'm  not " 

"It's  Dix!"  clamored  the  cow-puncher  on  the 
fence-top.  "It's  Dix!" 

There  was  a  rush  for  the  fence  to  make  certain, 
and  as  Dixie  Lee  dashed  in  through  the  horse  lot, 
Hardy  Atkins  threw  down  his  hat  and  cursed. 
Then  he  stood  irresolute,  gazing  first  at  Bowles 
and  then  at  the  fence,  until  suddenly  she  slipped 
through  the  bars  and  came  striding  across  the 
corral. 

"Oho,  Hardy  Atkins,"  she  panted,  as  she 
tapped  at  her  boot  with  a  quirt.  "So  this  is  what 

[273] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

you  were  up  to — riding  horses  while  Dad  went  to 
town !  Didn't  he  tell  you  to  keep  off  that  Dunbar 
horse?  Well,  then,  you  just " 

She  paused  as  she  sensed  the  tense  silence,  and 
then  she  saw  Bowles,  walking  resolutely  up  to  the 
horse.  In  a  flash  it  all  came  clear  to  her — the 
feud,  the  fights,  and  now  this  compact  to  ride. 

uMr.  Bowles!"  she  cried,  raising  her  voice  in 
a  sudden  command — but  before  she  could  get  out 
the  words  Hardy  Atkins  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"You  go  on  back  to  the  house!"  he  said,  fixing 
her  with  his  horse-taming  eyes.  "You  go  back 
where  you  belong!  I'm  doin'  this!" 

"You  let  go  of  me !"  stormed  Dixie  Lee,  mak 
ing  a  savage  pass  at  him  with  her  quirt — and  then 
a  great  shout  drowned  their  quarrel  and  made 
them  forget  everything  but  Bowles. 

The  obsession  of  days  of  brooding  had  laid 
hold  upon  him  and  left  him  with  a  single,  fixed 
idea — to  ride  Dunbar  or  die.  And  to  him,  no  less 
than  to  Hardy  Atkins,  the  coming  of  Dixie  Lee 
was  a  disappointment.  For  a  minute,  he  too  had 
stood  irresolute;  then,  with  the  simplicity  of  mad 
ness,  he  went  straight  to  the  blindfolded  horse 
and  began  to  lower  his  foot.  As  the  quarrel 
sprang  up,  he  gathered  his  reins ;  without  looking 
back,  he  hooked  his  stirrup ;  and  then,  very  gently, 
he  rose  to  the  saddle.  Then  the  shout  rang 
[274] 


THE  HORSE  THAT  KILLED  DUNBAR 

out,  and  he  reached  down  and  twitched  up  the 
blind. 

Gazing  out  from  beneath  the  band  which  had 
held  him  in  utter  darkness,  the  deep-set  rattle 
snake  eye  of  Dunbar  rolled  hatefully  at  the  man 
on  his  back.  He  crooked  his  neck  and  twisted  his 
malformed  head,  and  Bowles  felt  him  swelling 
like  a  lizard  between  his  knees — then,  with  a  squeal, 
he  bared  his  teeth  and  snapped  at  his  leg  like  a 
dog.  The  next  moment  his  head  went  down  and 
he  rose  in  a  series  of  buck-jumps,  whirling  side 
ways,  turning  half-way  round,  and  landing  with  a 
jolt.  And  at  every  jolt  Bowies'  head  snapped 
back  and  his  muscles  grew  stiff  at  the  jar.  But 
just  as  the  world  began  to  grow  black,  and  he  felt 
himself  shaken  in  his  seat,  the  trailing  neck  rope 
lapped  Dunbar  about  the  hind  legs  and  he  paused 
to  kick  himself  free. 

It  was  only  a  moment's  respite,  but  it  heartened 
the  rider  mightily.  He  caught  the  stirrup  that  he 
had  lost,  wiped  the  mist  from  his  eyes,  and  settled 
himself  deep  in  the  saddle. 

"Good  boy !  Stay  with  'im !"  yelled  the  maniacs 
on  the  fence-posts;  and  then  old  Dunbar  broke 
loose.  The  man  never  lived  that  could  ride  him — 
Bowles  realized  that  as  he  clutched  for  the  horn — 
and  then  his  pride  rose  in  him  and  he  sat 
limber  and  swung  the  quirt.  One,  two,  three 

[275] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

times,  he  felt  himself  jarred  to  the  center,  and  the 
blood  burst  suddenly  from  his  mouth  and  nose 
and  splashed  in  a  crimson  flood.  He  had  no 
knowledge  of  what  was  happening  now,  for  he 
could  not  see;  and  then,  with  a  heart-breaking 
wrench,  he  felt  himself  hurled  from  the  saddle 
and  sent  tumbling  heels  over  head.  He  struck, 
and  the  corral  dirt  rose  in  his  face;  there  was  a 
cloud  before  him,  a  mist;  and  then,  as  the  dizzi 
ness  vanished,  he  beheld  the  man-killer  charging 
at  him  through  the  dust  with  all  his  teeth  agleam. 

"Look  out!"  yelled  the  crowd  on  the  fence-top. 
"Lookout!" 

And  Bowles  scrambled  up  and  fell  over 
to  one  side.  His  knees  were  weak;  they  would 
not  bear  him;  and  through  the  dust  cloud  he 
saw  Dunbar  slide  and  turn  again.  Then  of  a 
sudden  he  was  in  a  tangle  of  legs  and  stirrups  and 
striking  feet,  and  somebody  grabbed  him  by  the 
arm.  Three  pistol  shots  rang  out  above  him; 
he  was  snaked  violently  aside;  and  old  Dunbar 
went  down  like  a  log.  Somebody  had  killed  him, 
that  was  certain;  but  it  was  not  Brigham,  for  he 
could  tell  by  the  characteristic  cursing  that  it  was 
his  partner  who  had  pulled  him  out  and  was 
dragging  him  across  the  corral.  He  blinked  and 
opened  his  eyes  as  he  fetched  up  against  the  fence 
— and  there  was  Dixie  Lee,  with  a  big,  smoking 

[276] 


"THE  MAX-KILLER  CHARGED  AT  HIM  THROUGH  THE  DUST"— Page 276 


THE  HORSE  THAT  KILLED  DUNBAR 

pistol  in  her  hand,  striding  after  him  out  of  the 
dust. 

She  looked  down  at  him,  her  eyes  blazing  with 
anger;  and  then,  snapping  the  empty  cartridges 
out  of  the  Colt's,  she  handed  it  back  to  a  puncher. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  hope  you  boys  are  satis 
fied  now!"  And  without  a  second  look  at  Brig- 
ham,  Bowles,  Hardy  Atkins,  or  the  remains  of 
Dunbar,  she  turned  and  strode  back  to  the  house. 


[277] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  CUSTOM  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

WHEN  Bat  Wing  Bowles  got  up  out  of  the 
dirt  he  was  shaken  in  body  and  spirit. 
His  corporeal  frame  felt  as  if  it  had  been  passed 
through  a  carpet-beater,  and  he  had  lost  some  of 
his  most  precious  illusions.  Certainly,  if  there 
was  any  way  by  which  a  tenderfoot  might  hope 
to  achieve  a  little  hard-earned  fame  in  the  Far 
West,  it  was  not  by  riding  bronks;  and  now,  be 
fore  he  could  wipe  the  blood  from  his  nose,  they 
were  blaming  him  for  all  their  troubles. 

"The  blank-blanked  greenhorn!"  cursed  Hardy 
Atkins,  pacing  to  and  fro  and  gazing  at  the  hulk 
of  Dunbar.  "I  tol'  'im  to  keep  off  that  hawse! 
Never  would've  let  'im  rode  'im — not  for  a  thous 
and  dollars!  And  then,  the  minute  my  back's 
turned — and  Dix  right  there  to  copper  the  play — 
he  goes  and  pulls  off  this!  But  I  don't  care — / 
never  done  nothin' !  You  boys  seen  'im — he  done 
ithimse'f!" 

And  then,  all  the  anger  and  blood-lust  that  had 
been  in  Bowies'  heart  for  days  went  suddenly  to 
his  right  hand,  and,  putting  his  shoulder  behind  it, 

[278] 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

he  smote  the  ex-twister  on  the  jaw.  It  was  a 
wicked  blow,  very  much  like  the  one  he  had  re 
ceived  himself,  and  it  laid  the  false  cow-puncher 
low.  He  came  up  reaching  for  his  gun,  and 
Bowles  knocked  him  down  again,  and  took  the  gun 
away.  Then  he  passed  it  on  to  Brigham,  and 
offered  to  fight  him  some  more — or  anybody !  A 
raging  devil  of  combat  seemed  to  possess  him, 
and  he  shouted  for  war,  and  more  war.  The  cow 
boys  drew  away  from  him  as  from  a  man  who 
has  lost  his  right  mind,  and  it  was  not  until  Brig- 
ham  had  cajoled  him  into  dipping  his  hot  head 
into  the  horse-trough  that  Bowles  left  off  his 
raving.  A  drink  of  Mr.  Mosby's  strong  coffee, 
and  a  rest  on  his  bed  by  the  sheds,  and  his  sanity 
was  completely  restored — but  his  illusions  were 
lost  forever! 

Never  again  would  Samuel  Bowles  try  to  beat 
the  cow-puncher  at  his  own  game;  never  would 
he  mount  a  wild  horse;  and  never  would  he  put 
faith  in  womankind.  Not  out  West,  anyway.  To 
be  sure,  Dixie  Lee  had  saved  him  from  the  man- 
killer,  but  she  had  done  it  in  such  a  way  as  to 
injure  his  pride  irreparably.  And  if  anybody  had 
cooled  his  fevered  brow  after  the  accident,  it 
certainly  was  not  Dixie,  but  Brigham  Clark,  when 
he  ducked  his  head  in  the  horse-trough.  A  sud 
den  aversion  to  his  surroundings — a  stern  dislike 
[279] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

for  sentiment  and  the  Bat  Wing — came  over 
Bowles  as  he  lay  moping  in  his  blankets,  and, 
rising  on  his  elbow,  he  called  to  Brigham. 

"Brig,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  quit  this  accursed 
ranch — would  you  mind  catching  my  private 
horse?" 

"No,  ner  mine  neither!"  fulminated  Brig.  "I 
jest  been  waitin'  fer  ye  to  say  the  word — been 
ready  myse'f  fer  a  week!" 

He  hopped  on  his  horse  as  he  spoke,  and  rode 
out  into  the  pasture,  and  as  he  returned  with  their 
private  mounts  Gloomy  Gus  came  over  from  the 
fire. 

"What  ye  goin'  to  do,  Brig,"  he  inquired; 
"quit?" 

"Yep,"  answered  Brig,  as  he  lashed  their  beds 
on  his  spare  horse;  "gittin'  too  bad  fer  me.  Next 
thing  you  know,  somebody'd  git  killed." 

"That's  right,"  agreed  Gus  gloomily;  "gittin' 
pretty  bad  around  hyer.  Cow-punchin'  ain't  what 
it  used  to  be.  Well,  I'm  sorry  to  see  you  go." 

He  put  them  up  a  lunch  and  watched  them  off, 
and  then  turned  back  to  his  pots  and  kettles, 
grumbling  and  shaking  his  head. 

That  was  their  only  farewell,  but  as  they  rode 
out  the  gate,  Dixie  Lee  appeared  at  the  big  house 
door  and  looked  after  them  as  they  passed.  Their 
mounts  alone  told  the  story  of  their  departure, 

[280] 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

and  their  beds  on  the  horse  behind;  but  though 
she  knew  they  were  quitting,  she  stood  silent  and 
made  no  sign. 

"Want  to  say  good-by?"  inquired  Brig,  glanc 
ing  up  at  her  from  under  his  hat,  but  Bowles  did 
not  reply.  A  deadly  apathy  had  'succeeded  his 
passion,  and  he  was  sullen  and  incapable  of 
higher  thoughts.  All  he  wanted  now  was  to  get 
away — after  that  he  could  think  what  to  do. 

They  turned  their  horses'  heads  toward  Chula 
Vista,  where  they  must  go  to  draw  their  time, 
and  after  they  had  ridden  a  mile  Bowles  suddenly 
turned  in  his  saddle — but  Dixie  had  passed  inside. 
A  deep  and  melancholy  sadness  came  over  him 
now,  and  he  sighed  as  he  slumped  down  in  his 
seat,  but  Brigham  did  not  notice  his  silence.  At 
noon  they  ate  as  they  rode,  getting  a  drink  at  a 
nester's  windmill,  and  at  night  they  camped  by 
a  well.  Then  it  was  that  Bowles  woke  up  from 
his  brooding  and  saw  that  he  was  not  alone  in  his 
mood — Brigham,  too,  was  downcast  and  wrapt 
up  in  his  thoughts.  His  mind  ran  quickly  back  to 
ascertain  the  cause,  and  he  remembered  the 
cherished  job. 

For  one  short,  eventful  month  Brigham  Clark 
had  been  a  boss.  A  straw-boss,  to  be  sure,  but 
still  a  boss — and  now  he  had  lost  his  job.  Never 
again,  perhaps,  would  he  rise  to  the  proud  emi- 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

nence  of  a  "straw" — and  yet  he  had  quit  his  place 
instantly  to  throw  in  his  lot  with  him.  A  wave  of 
compassion  and  self-reproach  swept  over  Bowles 
at  the  thought,  and  he  forgot  his  own  ugly  mood. 

"Brig,"  he  said,  as  they  sat  close  to  their  tiny 
fire,  "I'm  sorry  you  had  to  quit.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  me,  and  Hardy  Atkins,  you'd  be  back 
there  now,  on  your  job.  It  might  have  led  to 
something  better,  too.  Mr.  Lee  often  said " 

"Aw,  fergit  it,"  grumbled  Brig  morosely.  "/ 
didn't  want  the  job.  What's  the  use  of  bein'  a 
puncher,  anyway?  They's  nothin'  in  it  but  hard 
work.  I've  got  a  good  mind  to  hike  back  to  the 
Gila  and  go  to  pitchin'  hay." 

"Well,  if  I'm  in  your  way  at  all,"  urged  Bowles, 
"don't  hesitate  to  say  so.  I  only  proposed  this 
White  Mountain  trip " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  broke  in  Brig.  "I'll  be 
glad  to  git  away  from  it  all — git  where  they  ain't 
no  girls,  nor  mail,  nor  nothin'.  Up  there  in  them 
big  pine  trees  where  a  man  can  fergit  his  troubles. 
But  I  want  to  go  back  past  the  Bat  Wing.  I  told 
Dix  all  about  it  last  week,  and  I  shore  want  to  bid 
her  good-by.  There's  a  good  girl — Dix — but  she 
can't  understand.  She  says  if  I  had  any  nerve  I'd 
go  and  take  a  chance — marry  the  girl  and  wait 
and  see  what  happened  to  me — my  girl  down  on 
the  river,  you  know." 

[282] 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

Bowles  nodded  gravely  and  waited  for  him  to 
go  on.  It  was  a  month  since  Brigham  had  spoken 
of  his  girl,  and  he  had  never  discussed  the  affair 
since  that  first  rush  of  confidences,  until  now  sud 
denly  he  dived  into  the  midst  of  it. 

"No,"  continued  Brig,  gazing  mournfully  at  his 
dead  cigarette;  "Dix  is  all  right,  but  she  don't 
know  them  Mormons  like  I  do.  She  don't  know 
what  they're  liable  to  do.  This  feller  that's  tryin' 
to  marry  my  girl  is  the  bishop's  own  son — he's 
that  feller  I  beat  up  so  bad  when  I  took  to  the 
hills  a  while  back — and  he's  bound  to  do  me  dirt. 
My  girl  won't  marry  me,  nohow — not  lessen  I 
become  a  Mormon — and  shore  as  you're  settin' 
there,  boy,  if  I  take  that  gal  from  the  bishop's 
son,  I'm  elected  to  go  on  a  mission ! 

"I  know  it!  Hain't  the  old  man  got  it  in  fer 
me?  And  then  what's  to  become  of  my  wife? 
Am  I  goin'  to  leave  her  fer  two  years  and  that 
dastard  a-hangin'  around?  Not  on  yore  life — 
if  they  summoned  me  fer  a  mission,  I'd  either 
take  my  wife  along  or  I'd  kill  that  bishop's  son — 
one  or  the  other.  But  that's  the  worst  of  it — the 
bishop's  kid  is  on  the  spot,  and  I'm  hidin'  out  like 
a  coyote.  My  girl  keeps  a-writin'  like  she  never 
gets  no  letters,  and  beggin'  me  to  come  back  and 
be  good!  But  I  can't  do  it — that's  all — I  been  a 
renegade  too  long." 

[283] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Well,"  suggested  Bowles,  after  a  long  pause, 
"perhaps  we  could  go  by  that  way.  Maybe  her 
folks  are  keeping  your  letters  from  her,  or  some 
thing  like  that.  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for 
you,  Brig,  don't  hesitate  to  ask  for  it.  I  might  go 
around  and  see  her  for  you — or  if  you  need 
money " 

"No,"  protested  Brigham  petulantly;  "money 
won't  buy  me  nothin'  with  her.  I'm  up  ag'in  the 
whole  Mormon  church — and  if  you  knew  half 
of  what  I  do  about  'em,  you'd  know  that  you 
can't  buck  these  bishops.  The  Mormon  folks  is 
fine  people — they'll  feed  you,  and  help  you,  and 
do  anything  in  the  world  fer  you — but  them  priests 
and  apostles  and  bishops — umph-umm!  The 
more  you  know  about  'em,  the  worse  it  scares  you 
up — and  I'm  shore  down  on  their  black  books. 
No,  pardner,  I  ain't  got  a  chanc'st,  so  let's  fergit 
it.  I  talked  it  all  over  with  Dix,  and  she  kinder 
heartened  me  up;  but  it  ain't  no  use.  My  girl 
don't  like  me  enough  to  cut  loose  and  quit 
her  people,  and  I  won't  turn  Mormon  fer 
nobody — so  there  you  are.  Come  on,  let's  go 
to  bed!" 

It  was  a  hard  and  tragic  problem,  and  long 
after  the  fatalistic  Brig  had  gone  to  sleep,  Bowles 
lay  awake  and  tried  to  find  a  way  out.  His  own 
petty  griefs  seemed  sordid  by  the  side  of  it,  and 
all  the  way  to  town  he  turned  it  over  in  his  mind. 
[284] 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

But,  now  that  he  had  dismissed  it  forever,  Brig- 
ham  Clark  became  his  old  carefree  self  again. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do!"  he  exclaimed,  as 
they  talked  of  their  trip  to  the  hills.  "We'll  hunt 
up  old  Bill  Jump,  and  show  him  the  latest  in  lies. 
I  betcher  I  can  make  that  old  feller  ashamed  of 
himse'f — he's  jest  one  of  these  here  common, 
long-haired  liars  that  don't  know  nothin'  but  to 
go  you  one  better,  anyway.  But  you  wait  till  I 
pull  that  Hippodrome  stuff  on  'im — I  betcher 
that'll  make  his  jaw  drop.  Never  did  git  to  spring 
that  on  the  boys — say,  tell  me  that  ag'in  about  the 
clown  that  fished  up  bulldogs  outer  the  lake — 
and  them  elephants  comin'  over  the  waterfall! 
Yes,  sir;  if  old  Bill  is  up  in  them  White  Moun 
tains,  we'll  certainly  make  him  look  sick!" 

It  was  a  glorious  thing  to  contemplate,  and, 
once  in  town,  they  made  haste  to  lay  in  their  sup 
plies;  but  when  Brigham  came  back  from  his 
interview  with  the  boss  Bowles  could  see  that  his 
enthusiasm  had  been  shaken.  For  reasons  of  his 
own,  Bowles  had  preferred  not  to  meet  the  Lees, 
and  he  had  asked  Brig  to  convey  his  regrets  and  a 
release  for  his  two  months'  pay.  If  eighty  dollars 
would  compensate  for  the  defunct  Dunbar,  Mr. 
Bowles  was  satisfied;  otherwise,  he  would  be  glad 
to  meet  the  difference.  But  the  trouble  in  Brig- 
ham's  eye  was  not  one  of  dollars  and  cents — he 
had  something  big  on  his  mind. 

[285] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

"Say,"  he  said,  as  he  beckoned  Bowles  to  a 
corner  of  the  corral,  "what  d'ye  think  Mrs.  Lee 
sprung  on  me  when  I  went  around  fer  my  pay? 
And,  by  the  way,  they  was  a  deputy  sheriff  inquirin' 
fer  you  when  I  come  out  by  the  desk,  so  come 
away  from  that  gate — but  what  d'ye  think  she 
said?" 

"Why,  I'm  sure  I  can't  imagine,"  answered 
Bowles,  with  his  old-time  calm.  "What  was  it?" 

"Well,  she  had  a  big  yeller  telegraph  in  her 
hand  that  she  was  kinder  wavin'  around — I  never 
did  find  out  what  it  was  all  about — but  when  I 
come  in  to  the  hotel  she  flew  at  me  like  and  says : 

"  'Mr.  Clark,  do  you  know  who  that  young  man 
is  you're  travelin'  with?' 

"Well,  sir,  the  way  she  said  it  made  me  mad 
clean  through,  and  I  says  to  her: 

"  'No,  Mrs.  Lee,  I  don't— and,  what's  more, 
I  don't  care!  He's  a  good  pardner,  that's  all  I 
know — and  that's  all  I  want  to  know!' 

"And  then  I  turned  around  and  walked  out.  I 
don't  know  what  them  Lees  have  got  to  be  so 
proud  about,  the  way  old  Henry  used  to  cave 
around,  but  I  showed  her,  by  grab,  they  was  one 
puncher  she  couldn't  run  it  over !  She  always  did 
make  me  mad,"  observed  Brig,  as  he  stole  quiet 
glances  at  his  friend,  "but  I  knowed  mighty  well 
you  wasn't  no  crook  and — and  I  don't  care  what 
you  done!" 

[286] 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

"Well,  thank  you  just  as  much — I  haven't  done 
anything,  Brig,"  answered  Bowles  with  a  reassur 
ing  smile.  "But,"  he  added,  "that's  no  reason 
for  not  getting  out  of  town." 

They  packed  their  horse  hurriedly,  and  Bowles 
rode  on  ahead,  but  once  on  the  open  prairie  he 
gave  way  to  a  hearty  laugh. 

"Brig,"  he  said,  "what  in  the  world  do  you 
think  I've  done?" 

"Well,  I  dunno,"  mumbled  Brig,  looking  him 
over  shrewdly.  "Of  course,  I  knowed  all  along 
they  was  nothin'  to  that  Christabel  talk — stands 
to  reason  a  man  wouldn't  leave  home  for 
a  little  thing  like  that.  About  that  aunt,  now, 
that  sounds  a  little  more  likely — but  I've  knowed 
fellers  that  come  out  here  jest  fer  fun." 

"Yes,  but  this  deputy  sheriff— and  all  that!" 

"We-ell,"  drawled  Brigham,  with  a  sly  twinkle 
in  his  eye,  "I  heeard  a  little  more  from  him  than 
what  I  told  you  at  the  first !" 

"Oh,  indeed!     And  what  else  did  you  hear?" 

"Well "  Brig  stopped  and  stuck  his  tongue 

in  his  cheek  roguishly.  "He  said  it  was  a  woman 
that  wanted  you !" 

"My  aunt!"  exclaimed  Bowles,  striking  his  leg; 
but  Brig  only  spat  and  grinned. 

"Sure !"  he  said,  and  grinned  again. 

"I  have  it!"  cried  Bowles.  "Mrs.  Lee  wrote 
back  and  told  her  sister  I  was  here— and  then  my 
[287] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

aunt  began  telegraphing!  That  telegram  Mrs. 
Lee  had  was  from  her!" 

"Sure  thing,"  agreed  Brig;  and  Bowles  looked 
up  to  find  him  smirking. 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?"  he  demanded.  "Say, 
you're  pretty  smart,  aren't  you,  Brig?"  he  ob 
served,  with  pitying  scorn.  "They  don't  put  one 
over  on  you  very  often,  do  they?" 

"No,  indeedy!"  swaggered  Brigham;  and  then 
they  both  laughed — to  themselves.  But  the  jest 
put  an  effectual  end  to  the  discussion,  since  Brig- 
ham  did  not  know  what  it  was  he  was  supposed 
to  have  discovered,  and  Bowles  took  no  pains  to 
enlighten  him.  It  was  enough  that  Brig  con 
sidered  him  a  very  gay  dog  indeed,  and  he  did 
not  deny  the  soft  impeachment.  So,  each  with 
his  satisfied  smile,  they  jogged  along  across  the 
plains,  dragging  their  pack  animal  behind  them 
and  heading  for  the  Bat  Wing. 

All  that  day  they  rode  on  through  the  mellow 
sunshine,  and  the  next  morning  found  them  still  on 
their  way;  but  just  as  the  well-remembered  ranch 
came  into  view  there  was  a  rattle  of  wheels  from 
behind  and  they  swung  out  to  give  Henry  Lee 
the  road.  He  was  driving  the  fiery  grays,  and 
they  fought  gamely  against  the  delay,  but  he 
pulled  them  down  to  a  walk  while  he  handed 
Bowles  a  note. 

[288] 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

"Telegram  for  you,  Mr.  Bowles,"  he  said. 
"Brig,  stop  at  the  ranch  when  you  go  by — I  want 
to  talk  with  you." 

There  was  much  more  that  might  have  been 
said,  and  Mrs.  Lee  smiled  approvingly  at  Bowles, 
but  the  grays  were  within  sight  of  the  haystack 
and  they  cut  the  talk  short  with  a  bolt.  Then 
Bowles  glanced  through  the  telegram  and  thrust 
it  into  his  shirt. 

"My  aunt "  he  began,  and  as  the  grin  on 

Brig's  face  widened,  he  stopped  short  and  fell 
into  a  sulk.  "No  use  telling  you  anything,  Brig," 
he  said  at  last;  "you  can  guess  by  the  color  of  my 
eye." 

"Sure!"  said  Brig,  after  a  moment  of  baffled 
silence.  "Yore  aunt  seems  to  think  a  whole  lot 
of  you.  And,  speakin'  about  women-folks,  what's 
this  comin'  down  off  the  hill?" 

He  nodded  at  the  foothills  to  the  west,  and  as 
Bowles  gazed  he  saw  Dixie  Lee  coming  down  the 
broad  slope  like  an  arrow.  She  was  riding  Wa- 
ha-lote,  too,  and  at  sight  of  that  noble  charger  the 
heart  of  Bat  Wing  Bowles  became  sad — or  per 
haps  it  was  at  sight  of  Dixie.  However  that 
may  be,  he  continued  on  his  way  with  melancholy 
resignation;  while  Brig  viewed  her  coming  with 
alarm. 

"Here's  where  I  ketch  hell  fer  somethin' !"  he 
[289] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

muttered,  as  she  sighted  him  from  afar;  and  when 
she  rode  up  and  faced  him  he  hung  his  head  like 
a  truant. 

"You  Brig!"  she  said  at  last,  whipping  the  hair 
from  her  eyes  with  one  hand,  "you  haven't  got 
git-up  enough  in  you  to  win  an  Indian  squaw! 
You'll  make  a  lovely  husband  for  somebody,  and 
that's  a  fact — the  way  you  do  your  courting.  Who 
do  you  think  is  up  to  the  big  house  waiting  for 
you?" 

"Huh?"  demanded  Brig,  now  suddenly  all  at 
tention. 

"Well,  she's  been  there  for  more  than  a  day — 
while  you  were  out  shooting  prairie-dogs.  What 
she  sees  in  you  is  more  than  I  can  say,  but " 

"Who're  ye  talkin'  about?"  barked  Brigham, 
throwing  loose  his  leading-rope. 

"I'm  talking  about  your  girl,"  answered  Dixie 
with  Spartan  directness.  "Here,  I'll  lead  your 
pack — go  ahead  and  show  her  your  dust." 

"I'll  do  that,"  said  Brig,  leaning  forward  as  she 
spoke;  and,  passing  over  the  rope,  he  went  spur 
ring  up  the  road. 

Dixie  Lee  gave  Bowles  a  level  look  from  be 
neath  her  tumbled  hair,  and  touched  Wa-ha-lote 
with  the  spur.  Her  manner  seemed  to  be  a  dis 
claimer  of  any  responsibility  for  their  being  left 
together,  and  yet  somehow  it  was  very  obvious 
[290] 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

that  the  stage  had  been  set  for  an  interview.  But 
if  Dixie  had  any  intentions,  she  concealed  them 
effectually,  and  her  manner  was  one  of  good- 
natured  tolerance. 

"Well,  look  at  that  crazy  fool  ride,"  she  ob 
served,  as  Brig  disappeared  in  his  own  dust. 
"You'd  think  from  the  way  he  travels  he  was  the 
keenest  lover  in  the  world."  She  paused  here 
and  laughed  to  herself. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  responded  Bowles,  with  a  cer 
tain  brotherly  pride.  "Old  Brig  thinks  a  lot  of  that 
girl." 

"Well,  maybe  he  does,"  conceded  Dixie;  "but 
he  certainly  makes  me  provoked.  I  declare,  the 

way  some  of  these  men "  she  paused  again  and 

bit  her  lip.  Mr.  Bowles  was  one  of  those  men, 
too.  "I  reckon  it's  all  right,"  she  continued  re 
signedly  ;  "but  when  a  woman  has  to  ride  clear  over 
to  the  Gila,  and  propose  for  a  man,  and  steal  his 
girl  for  him,  and  then  round  him  up  and  send  him 
in,  I  guess  she  has  some  excuse  to  speak  her  mind. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Bowles?  Well,  then,  if 
your  friend  Brigham  had  had  his  way,  he  would 
have  hit  for  the  summit  of  the  White  Mountains, 
and  his  girl  would  have  been  married  to  a  Mormon ! 
It  makes  me  mad,  Mr.  Bowles,  I  declare  it  does ! 
The  idea  of  leaving  that  poor  little  girl  over  there 
and  never  going  near  her,  when  all  the  time  she 
[291] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

was  begging  him  to  come  back,  and  her  folks  were 
reading  her  letters.  She  couldn't  write  it  to  him — 
she  had  to  tell  him — and  he  never  showed  up  at 
all.  Please  don't  apologize  for  him,  Mr.  Bowles ; 
I'm  sure  there's  not  a  word  to  be  said." 

Mr.  Bowles  bowed  his  head  and  felt  very  hum 
ble  indeed,  as  if  he,  too,  in  some  inexplicable  way, 
had  erred  and  been  rebuked. 

"And  now,"  said  Dixie  at  last,  "Father'll  make 
Mr.  Brig  his  wagon-boss,  and  they'll  get  married 
and  live  at  the  ranch.  Simple,  isn't  it?" 

"Why,  it  seems  so,"  admitted  Bowles;  "but 
how  do  you  know  he  will?" 

"How  do  I  know?"  repeated  Dixie,  rolling  her 
eyes  on  him.  "Why,  Mr.  Bowles,  have  you  been 
around  the  Bat  Wing  for  two  months  and  failed 
to  note  who  was  boss?  Right  after  you  and 
Brigham  Clark  left  I  went  down  and  fired  that 
Hardy  Atkins — so  you  don't  need  to  be  bashful 
about  coming  back." 

Her  voice  trailed  off  a  little  as  she  ended,  and 
Bowles  started  and  looked  at  the  ground.  New 
worlds  and  vistas  appeared  before  him,  and  vis 
ions  and  sudden  dreams — and  then  he  was  back 
by  her  side,  and  the  road  was  passing  by. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  at  last.     "It's  my  own 

fault — I  should  have  explainued  at  the  beginning. 

But  now  your  mother  has  written  to  her  sister, 

and  she  has  told  my  aunt,  and  so  I've  got  to  move 

[292] 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

on.  She's  telegraphing  already."  He  showed  her 
the  yellow  message  and  slipped  it  back  into  his 
pocket.  "And  there  was  a  deputy  sheriff  inquiring 
for  me,"  he  added  bitterly. 

uOh,  dear!"  pouted  Dixie,  yanking  at  the  re 
luctant  pack-horse.  "I  just  knew  she'd  do  it. 
Mother  means  well,  but  she's  a  New  Yorker,  and 
— well,  I  hope  she's  satisfied!" 

"Yes,  I  hope  so  too,"  added  Bowles.  "I  never 
did  have  anything  to  be  ashamed  of,  but — do  you 
know  who  I  am?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  answered  Dixie  May.  "And  I 
don't  care,  either,"  she  added,  glancing  across  at 
him  with  clear-seeing  eyes.  "I  always  knew  you 
were  a  gentleman,  and — say,  what's  the  matter 
with  that  pack?" 

She  dismounted  quickly  as  she  spoke,  and 
Bowles  dropped  off  to  help.  Then,  after  the  ropes 
had  been  tightened,  they  stood  silent  within  the 
circle  of  their  horses. 

"Mr.  Bowles,"  began  Dixie,  leaning  one  arm 
on  the  pack  and  looking  thoughtfully  away, 
"being  the  man  you  are,  you — you  wouldn't  com 
pel  a  lady  to  apologize  to  you,  would  you?" 

"Why  no,  no — certainly  not!"  gasped  Bowles, 
alarmed  by  a  mistiness  in  her  eyes. 

"Because  if  that's  what  you're  going  away 
for " 

"Oh,  my  dear  Miss  Lee!"  protested  Bowles, 

[293] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

now  suddenly  stirred  to  the  depths.  "Don't  think 
of  it — not  for  a  moment  I  No,  indeed!  I  will 
confess  that  I  was  a  little  hurt  by  your — but  that's 
all  right !  That's  all  right !  You  don't  know  my 
aunt,  do  you,  Miss  Lee?  I  can't  explain  it  to  you, 
but — well,  she's  a  very  determined  woman,  in  her 
way,  and — well,  she  wants  me  to  come  home." 

"Yes?" 

"Yes,  and  so  I'd  better  move  on.  I'm  sorry 
that  Brig  can't  go  along  with  me,  but — well,  I  can 
go  alone.  Do  you  remember  one  time,  when  we 
were  coming  West,  I  spoke  about  the  spirit  of  the 
country— the  spirit  of  the  West?  Well,  I  have 
found  it — it  is  to  move  on!'* 

"And  never  come  back?"  inquired  Dixie 
quickly. 

"Well,  something  like  that,"  admitted  Bowles. 

"Yes,  I  do  remember  that,"  responded  Dixie, 
with  a  reminiscent  smile.  "I  remember  it  well. 
We  were  alone  on  the  train  and  we  said  all  kinds 
of  things — I  didn't  know  you  very  well  then.  I 
remember  you  told  me  once,  if  I'd  help  you  find 
the  Far  West,  you'd  be  my  faithful  knight — and 
all  that.  And  I  helped  you,  too,  didn't  I?" 

"Why,  yes !"  said  Bowles,  puzzled  by  her  air. 

"Well,  what  about  being  my  knight?"  de 
manded  Dixie,  with  sudden  frankness.  "You've 
done  well  out  here,  Mr.  Bowles,  but  there's  one 
[294] 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

thing  I'm  disappointed  in — you  don't  keep  the 
customs  of  the  country!" 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Miss  Lee?"  inquired 
Bowles. 

A  sudden  smile  illuminated  Dixie's  face — the 
same  smile  that  had  taken  possession  of  him  when 
he  had  forgotten  and  stolen  a  kiss — and  then  she 
turned  away  and  blushed. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "you're  the  first  Bat  Wing 
man  that  has  gone  away  without — without  pro 
posing  to  me!" 

She  glanced  at  him  defiantly  and  folded  her  arms 
— and  Bowles  felt  his  reason  eclipsed,  and  the 
world  go  dark  before  him.  A  thousand  riotous 
thoughts  clamored  suddenly  for  recognition,  and 
his  brain  reeled  at  the  shock.  Then  he  opened 
his  eyes,  and  she  was  still  smiling  at  him,  but  the 
smile  had  a  twinkle  of  mischief  in  it.  The  mem 
ory  of  her  legion  of  suitors  came  over  him  now, 
and  her  carefree,  jesting  ways,  and  he  became 
of  a  sudden  calm.  They  had  all  proposed,  and 
she  had  led  them  on,  and  then  she  had  told  them 
no.  But  she  should  never  deal  that  ignominy  to 
him.  If  she  scorned  his  humble  suit  and  desired 
only  to  add  his  scalp  to  the  rest,  he  would  escape 
at  least  with  his  pride— he  would  never  let  her 
say  he  had  proposed. 

"Ah,  you  must  excuse  me,  Miss  Lee,"  he  said, 
[295] 


BAT  WING  BOWLES 

speaking  with  a  formal  restraint.  "Much  as  I 
value  your  happiness,  I — I  cannot  observe  this — 
custom  of  the  country !" 

He  spat  the  words  out  bitterly,  and  closed  his 
lips — as  if  there  was  more  he  might  say.  But 
Dixie  did  not  lose  her  smile. 

"Maybe  I'd  accept  you,"  she  suggested  with  a 
roguish  twinkle,  and  once  more  he  gazed  into 
her  eyes  to  read  there  if  she  was  his  friend.  But 
a  woman's  eyes  are  deceptive,  and  hers  spoke  of 
many  things — she  smiled,  the  old  dazzling  smile, 
but  there  was  mischief  in  the  depths.  He  sighed 
and  drew  away. 

"Ah,  no,"  he  said,  "you  cannot  understand." 
Then,  as  she  waited,  his  heart  turned  to  bitter 
ness  and  he  spoke  on  as  the  thoughts  came. 
"Really,  Miss  Lee,  it  pains  me — I  cannot  believe 
it.  What  is  one  man,  more  or  less,  that  you 
should  hurt  me  like  this?  Dixie"— he  raised  his 
downcast  eyes  and  regarded  her  reproachfully — 
"I  have  dreamed  about  you.  I  have  worshiped 
you  from  afar — I  have  fought  my  way  to  be  near 
you.  You  don't  know  how  it  would  pain  me — 
after  all  I  have  hoped — to  have  you " 

"Aw,  Bowles,"  chided  Dixie,  reaching  out  her 
hand,  "can't  you  see  that  I  want  you?" 

And  then  Bowies'  dream  came  true. 

[296] 


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